The  Novels  of 

Henry  James 

A  Study 

By 

Elisabeth   Luther  Gary 


With  a  Bibliography  by 
Frederick  A.  King 


G,  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New   York    and    London 

Gbe  "Knickerbocker  jprees 

1905 


COPYRIGHT,  1905 

BY 
ELISABETH  LUTHER  GARY 


Ubc  TRnicfcerbocfeer  ff»re0s,  1Rew  l^orfe 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

INTRODUCTORY  CHAPTER      ...       i 
I. — AMERICAN  CHARACTER     ....     20  • 
II. — THE  GENIUS  OF  PLACE  .     ...     95 
III. — THE  QUESTION  OF  WEALTH      .     .   119  - 
IV. — IMAGINATION       .  •-"-.     .....  144 

V. — PHILOSOPHY 169  * 

BIBLIOGRAPHY     .     .     ...    ....     .   189 


The  Novels  of  Henry  James 


Introductory  Chapter 

AFTER  the  work  of  an  important 
writer  has  extended  over  more  than  a 
quarter  of  a  century,  he  becomes,  prop 
erly  enough,  a  subject,  if  not  for  final 
critical  judgment,  at  least  for  some 
thing  more  than  cursory  consideration. 
It  is  time  to  think  of  him  not  as  the 
author  of  independent  works,  each 
pleasing  or  displeasing  to  a  sufficiently 
various  public,  but  as  the  creator 
through  his  accumulated  accomplish 
ment  of  an  impression  both  definite 


James 


and  general  .x  It  is  inconceivable  that 
the  little  world  of  readers  and  thinkers 
to  which  he  addresses  himself  is  in  pre 
cisely  the  same  temper  of  mind  as  if 
he  had  not  lived  and  written.  He  has 
either  enriched  or  impoverished  it.  He 
has  either  raised  or  lowered  its  opinion 
of  the  human  nature  so  long  discussed 
by  him.  He  has  either  quickened  or 
dulled  its  vision  for  beauty  in  character, 
art,  and  the  external  world.  Above  all, 
he  has  inevitably  made  more  clear  the 
elusive  boundaries  of  what  is  worth 
while  in  a  life  of  multitudinous  choice. 
He  has  emphasised  by  a  thousand 
minute  accents,  if  not  by  obvious 
broad  strokes,  his  preoccupations  in 
the  domain  of  morals.  In  a  word,  he 
has  become  an  influence  to  be  prized 
or  to  be  deprecated,  he  has  become  a 
part  of  the  mental  climate  to  which  we 


Untrofcuctors 


owe  so  many  of  our  joys  and  afflictions. 
He  belongs  indefeasably  to  our  con 
sciousness  and  can  never  be  separated 
from  our  memories.  In  the  case  of  a 
living  writer  we  frequently  ignore  this 
intimate  relation  with  the  public.  It 
is  natural  to  take  it  for  granted,  much 
as  we  take  for  granted  the  bonds  of 
family,  so  difficult  is  it  to  estimate  at 
its  true  value  to  us  the  note  of  a 
voice  still  speaking  for  our  warning, 
our  instruction,  our  amusement,  or  our 
comfort. 

The  voice  of  Mr.  Henry  James  is  one 
to  which  we  have  long  been  accus 
tomed.  For  something  more  than 
thirty  years  it  has  sounded  in  harmony 
with  our  finer  aesthetic  predilections.: 
None  who  heard  it  in  the  early  time, 
when  the  trip  to  Europe  was  not  yet  a 
common  yearly  satisfaction  for  even 


tbenrg  5ames 


the  "cultivated  minority,"  when  the 
foreign  galleries  were  not  yet  filled 
with  American  tourists,  can  forget  its 
irresistible  note  of  youthful  receptivity, 
of  eloquent  rejoicing  in  "the  beautiful 
scenic  properties  of  English  life,"  of 
bright  suggestion  that  only  a  "poor 
disinherited  Yankee"  could  properly 
appreciate  the  "points"  of  admirable 
England.  As  it  grew  more  and  more 
apparent  that  this  England  was  to  re 
tain  its  fascination  in  the  eyes  of  the 
itinerant  critic,  and  that  his  interest  in 
the  enchanting  English  landscape  was 
to  wrap  itself  closely  about  the  figures 
with  which,  he  early  noted,  an  English 
landscape  is  always  amply  relieved,  it 
became  a  matter  almost  of  anxiety  to 
discover  in  what  frame  of  mind  he  was 
to  interrogate  the  much  entangled  hu 
man  scene  on  which  his  eyes  were  so 


flntrofcuctorg 


intelligently  bent.  Already  seen  to  be 
gifted  with  an  extraordinary  capacity 
for  self-expression,  and  amazingly 
perceptive,  responsive,  accurate,  and 
imaginative,  he  set  us  at  liberty  to 
indulge  in  brilliant  expectations.  His 
^rly  novels  seemed  the  vanguard  of  a 
ifody  of  literature  that  should  win  an 
easy  triumph  over  the  commonplace. 
Some  of  us  shook  our  heads,  to  be 
sure,  over  what  we  vaguely  suspected 
to  be  their  "foreign  flavour,"  their  ap 
parent  derivation  from  sources  with 
which  we  were  not  ourselves  intimately 
acquainted;  but  there  was  compensa 
tion  in  having  the  pleasure  of  such 
an  undeniably  rare  quality,  and  fur 
nished  for  us  by  one  of  our  own  race, 
of  our  national  family.  He  has  told 
us  that  to  be  at  once  fresh  and  ripe  of 
mind  was  what  Lowell  predominantly 


Dents  James 


understood  by  being  a  good  American, 
and  on  his  own  part  he  has  never 
ceased  to  be  one  in  that  particular 
sense. 

But  if  it  is  true  that  "America  is 
Opportunity,"  it  was  logical  enough 
to  feel,  as  many  early  readers  of 
James  vociferously  did  feel,  that 
species  of  practical  joke  was  cruelly 
played  upon  that  innocent  country 
when  its  most  promising  and  com- 
v  petent  novelist  made  prompt  use  of 
^the  opportunity  to  leave  it.  It  was  at 
least,  perhaps,  a  measure  of  the  Amer 
ican  desire  to  possess  him  that  his 
flitting  was  so  openly  resented.  Such 
naive  resentments  have  slipped,  how 
ever,  into  the  background  of  the  na 
tional  consciousness.  Concern  for  the 
dignity  of  the  country  has  come  with 
time  to  mean  in  serious  minds  some- 


fntrofcuctors 


thing  very  different  from  this  imma 
ture  sentiment  of  provincial  pride. 
What  the  '  *  good  American ' '  now  thinks 
about  with  perhaps  less  optimism  than 
formerly,  but  surely  with  a  finer  ar 
dour,  is  how  his  country  may  avoid  the 
Qhoice  commemorated  in  Emerson's  sig 
nificant  poem,  how  it  may  learn  clearly 
to  distinguish  diadems  from  fagots 
and  firmly  to  grasp  the  better  gifts 
of  the  hypocritic  days  in  manners, 
in  morals,  and  in  learning,  as  well  as 
in  commerce  and  mechanical  science. 
He  finds  it  not  merely  agreeable  but 
quite  essential  to  his  peace  of  mind  to 
enlarge  so  far  as  he  can  his  horizon,  to 
listen  to  cosmopolitan  voices  from  the 
more  ancient  civilised  centres  of  the 
world.  He  finds  it  good  not  only  to 

hear  the  deeds  of  kings, 


Which  were  fools  and  which  were  wise. 


James 


but  to  hear  also  of  societies  older  than 
our  own  with  their  fixed  and  mellowed 
forms,  to  reflect  upon  the  types  pro 
duced  by  them,  and  the  types  impos 
sible  for  them  to  produce. 

From  this  point  of  view  the  patriot 
must  inevitably  welcome,  almost  with 
a  sense  of  pious  gratitude,  a  long  series 
(      of    impressions    made    upon   a   mind 
1      prepared  to  receive  the  fine,  elusive,  im- 
\     perceptible  seed  of  English  and  Euro- 
\    pean  influences,  to  nourish  it  with  the 
I   substance  of  a  rich  intelligence,   and 
\  bring  it  to  a  luxuriant  fruitage  of  ripe 
'  reflection.     Perhaps  it  is  indeed  neces 
sary  to  belong  to  the  disinherited  in 
order  to  look  on  at  the  overwhelming 
complicated  social  spectacle  of  London 
with  a  gaze  at  once  interested  and  de 
tached,  to  separate  from  its  brilliant 
confusion   the   elements   of   similarity 


fntrotwctor£ 


and  contrast  so  indispensable  to  the 
student  of  comparative  sociology  in 
the  untechnical  and  practically  un 
limited  sense  of  a  phrase  curiously  re 
stricted  and  perverted  in  the  modern 
vocabulary.  The  novelist  of  manners, 
to  use  again  a  phrase  commonly  lim 
ited  to  only  half  its  meaning,  is  of 
necessity  a  person  dedicated  to  his 
occupation.  If  the  wisdom  of  a 
learned  man  cometh  by  opportunity  of 
leisure,  the  wise  records  of  a  leisure 
class  require  nevertheless  an  immense 
amount  of  labour.  It  is,  perhaps,  as 
the  diligent  recorder  of  a  leisure  class,  * 
with  its  intricately  combined  and  dif 
ferentiated  characteristics,  that  Mr. 
James  most  appeals  to  readers  eageri 
for  the  fullest  possible  data  of  human\ 
society.  Along  this  line  he  has  la 
boured  for  us  of  the  present  generation 


io  Dents  3ames 

as  no  one  else  has  laboured,  and  has 
fixed  with  exquisite  analysis  types  and 
conditions  that  are  already  ceasing  to 
exist  in  life  and  are  nowhere  else  than 
in  his  novels  adequately  commemor 
ated.  Even  when  we  find  ourselves  in 
special  instances  critical  of  his  choice 
and  in  doubt  concerning  its  sustained 
significance,  we  are  obliged  to  admit 
that  he  alone  of  the  present  time  has 
undertaken  to  produce  for  us  a  picture 
of  international  social  relations,  drawn 
in  the  presence  of  the  model,  and  with 
a  patience  and  authority  inspired  by 
an  infinitely  serious  purpose.  His 
cumulative  statement  of  his  impres 
sions  has  the  dignity  of  mature,  con 
sidered,  highly  developed  art.  It  isi 
the  synthesis  of  deliberately  acquired  \ 
knowledge,  and  bears  none  of  the 
marks  of  hasty  seeing  or  superficial 


fntrofcuctorg 


learning.  In  using  the  simile  of  the 
painter's  art  to  express  his  perform 
ance,  we  are  more  than  usually  justi 
fied,  for  his  method  is  closely  akin  to 
that  of  the  painter  if  we  make  due 
allowance  for  the  greater  flexibility  of 
his  medium.  He  reproduces  appear-T* 
ances  with  sufficient  regard  to  selec-' 
tion,  representing  in  his  work  the  seen 
and  recording  the  fact  that  certain 
things  are  unseen.  From  these  ap 
pearances  we  may  judge  what  the 
reality  is;  from  these  beautifully  ren 
dered  effects  we  may  infer  causes ;  but 
what  is  not  left  for  inference,  what  is 
impressed  upon  us  so  forcibly  as  to 
admit  of  no  contradiction,  is  the  sin- 
I  cerity  of  the  artist  and  the  consequent 
importance  as  matter  for  consideration  , 
of  his  art.  He  has  many  times  been 
said  to  resemble  the  French  in  his 


12 


methods,  and  he  himself  has  acknow 
ledged  a  special  allegiance  to  the  es 
sentially  Gallic  spirit  of  Balzac.  But 
the  quality  in  which  we  can  see  most 
clearly  such  a  resemblance,  the  quality 
conscientiousness,  is  stronger  with 
him  and  deeper  than  with  any  French 
man  known  to  modern  letters.  So  far 
as  he  displays  that  admirable  virtue  in 
the  matter  —  the  mere  matter,  it  is 
tempting  for  an  English  writer  to  say, 
—  of  his  technique  he  is  certainly 
closely  allied  to  the  French  mind 
which  works  toward  "style"  with  an 
indifference  to  the  labour  involved,  a 
love  not  merely  of  the  end  but  of  the 
means  to  such  an  end,  unknown  to  any 
other  race.  But  conscientiousness  in| 
its  deeper  and  subtler  sense,  the  French, 
it  has  been  noted  by  a  critic  himself  at 
once  deep  and  subtle,  conspicuously 


fntrofcuctors  13 


lack.  Mr.  James,  on  the  other  hand, 
has  carried  it  into  regions  which  it 
illumines  with  an  extraordinary  light.! 
?It  has  become  increasingly  true  of 
him  that  he  reaches  depths  and  cran4  A 
nies  of  character  and  temperament  to]  .' 
^which  none  of  his  predecessors  could 
have  penetrated,  making  his  way 
through  the  baffling  layers  of  cant  and 
custom  and  back  of  the  sturdy  file  of 
obvious  motives  guarding  the  secrets* 
of  our  innermost  being,  by  means  of  a 
passion  for  truth  too  intense  and  mov 
ing  to  be  classified  as  philosophy.  It 
has  been  said  indeed  that  Mr.  James 
has  no  philosophy,  but  it  cannot  be 
denied  that  he  has  a  religion  in  the  \ 
general  and  large  meaning  of  the  word. 
In  the  domain  of  his  art  it  is  his  religion 
to  reveal  not  perhaps  so  much  as  may 
be  possible  of  life,  but  life  as  close  as 


14  Denr$  James 

^possible  to  its  source,  life  as  little  as 
/possible  concealed  by  its  mask  or  ob- 
f  served  at  second  hand.  Reviewing 
1  his  work  from  the  tentative  charming 
experiments,  confessions,  and  blithe 
confidences  of  his  wandering  years  to 
The  Golden  Bowl,  with  its  close  texture 
like  old  rich  hand-woven  tapestry,  the 
tendency  of  his  effort,  preconceived,  we 
may  imagine,  and  consistently  held,  is 
sufficiently  apparent.  It  is  nothing 
surely,  but  this,  or  at  all  events  no-i 
thing  less  than  this:  to  come  by  in-j 
corrigible  patience  and  unwearying 
perception  at  the  life  of  the  soul,  and 
to  render  this  with  an  art  worthy  of 
the  difficult,  the  well-nigh  impossible 
subject.  Something  of  the  sort  he  has, 
indeed,  said,  impersonally,  in  his  essay 
on  Pierre  Loti,  which,  like  all  his  essays, 
contains  wide  suggestion  for  the  fas- 


flntrofcuctors  15 


cinated  student  of  his  point  of  view. 
The  soul,  he  suggests,  may  appear  to 
the  moralising  observer  "a  romantic, 
moonlighted  landscape,  with  woods 
and  mountains  and  dim  distances, 
visited  by  strange  winds  and  mur 
murs."  It  is  thus,  certainly,  that  it 
appears  to  him,  and  if  in  his  thickly 
peopled  life  he  has  lacked,  and  in  his 
writings  has  somewhat  shown  the  lack, 
of  frequent  communion  with  the  good 
brown  earth  in  places  not  yet  human 
ised  by  the  presence  of  man,  he  has 
made  of  the  dim  underworld  in  which 
ideas  and  emotions  are  born  a  place  of 
infinite  loneliness  and  romance.  These 
inner  scenes  upon  which  he  looks  are 
as  filled  with  the  unfamiliar  and  the 
inaccessible  as  the  island  of  Cru 
soe's  fame  or  the  New  World  appear 
ing  to  the  first  explorer  of  the  Western 


16  DenrE  5ame0 

hemisphere.  This  interrogation  of  the 
invisible  united  to  an  unremitting  effort 
I  toward  completeness  of  evocation  con 
stitutes  his  extraordinary  distinction. 
It  places  him  as  he  appears  in  his 
later  novels,  quite  apart  not  only  in 
accomplishment,  but,  one  might  posi 
tively  say,  in  aim  from  all  other 
novelists  living  or  dead.  Great  as 
Thackeray  was,  greater  in  a  certain 
clear  control  over  his  material  than  any 
one  of  his  century,  he  nevertheless  was 
contented  with  the  obvious,  and  in  this 
contentment  unquestionably  lies  much 
of  the  secret  not  of  his  genius,  but  of 
his  popularity.  George  Meredith,  to 
whom  the  human  spirit,  and  even  more 
particularly  the  human  mind,  is  the 
most  interesting  subject  in  the  world, 
declines  to  provide  for  it  a  credible 
social  environment.  Against  a  group 


flntrotmctors  17 


of  modern  French  novelists  Mr.  James 
himself  brings  the  charge  of  neglect  for 
"the  multitudinous,  adventurous  ex 
perience  of  the  senses,"  of  "the  deeper, 
stranger,  subtler  inward  life,  the  won 
derful  adventures  of  the  soul,"  and 
notes  the  apparent  inability  of  the 
French  imagination  when  it  does  take 
account  of  ideas  and  moral  states,  to 
use  the  same  skill  that  is  so  much  at  its 
service  in  expressing  the  visible.  Of 
Flaubert  he  says :  '  *  He  should  at  least 
have  listened  at  the  chamber  of  the 
soul.  This  would  have  floated  him  on 
a  deeper  tide;  above  all,  it  would  have 
calmed  his  nerves."  Such  expressions 
are  of  the  greatest  value  to  the  critic 
or  commentator  attempting  to  find 
precisely  the  generalisation  that  will  re 
present  to  the  general  but  ungeneral- 
ising  public  the  special  combination  of 


r 

18  tjenq?  James 


qualities  in  which  abides  the  pre-emi 
nence  of  Mr.  James  as  a  writer  of  fiction. 
If  there  is  no  egoistic  satisfaction  to  be 
had  from  a  clue  so  unmistakable,  there 
is  the  equal,  if  not  superior,  satisfaction 
of  having  one's  analysis  so  clearly  and 
simply  done  for  one.  The  pure  consis 
tency  of  his  attitude  is  what  makes  Mr. 
James  for  any  critic  the  most  certain  of 
quantities,  the  least  really  bewildering, 
though  far  from  the  least  intricate,  of 
problems  so  far  as  the  larger  aspiration 
and  the  visible  goal  of  his  labour  are 
concerned.  What  he  personally  stands 
for  in  his  criticisms,  and  what  he  in- 
defatigably  acts  upon  in  his  novels  and 
stories,  most  of  all  in  his  shorter 
stories,  is  this  simple  and  supreme  idea 
of  combining  what  a  critic  of  painting 
would  call  tactile  values  with  the 
greatest  possible  amount  of  spiritual 


fntrotmctors  19 


truth.  In  other  words,  his  technical 
curiosity,  his  ability  to  represent  life 
pictorially  by  a  multiplicity  of  fine  ob 
servations,  runs  hand  in  hand  with  a 
curiosity  far  more  unusual  and  far 
more  difficult  to  satisfy,  a  curiosity  as 
to  moral  states  and  responsible  affec 
tions.  To  say  this  is  only  to  say  what 
is  obvious  to  every  interested  reader 
of  his  work,  but  it  is  the  natural  point 
to  start  from  in  any  co-ordinated 
comment  on  his  various  achievement. 


I 

IF  we  discover  in  work  of  ripe  years 
a  conspicuous  value,  we  instinctively 
ask  under  what  conditions  the  stream 
of  artistic  energy  began  to  flow,  where 
it  took  its  rise,  through  what  land 
scape,  bleak  or  smiling,  it  made  its 
way,  how  promptly  or  gradually  it  en 
larged  its  borders  and  extended  its 
sweep,  if  it  were  clear  at  its  source  or 
turbid,  slow  or  impetuous  in  its  move 
ment.  In  many  cases  the  thoughts 
of  youth  are  far  from  long  thoughts;) 
what  seems  profoundly  important  to 
the  pride  and  passion  of  young  minds 
becomes  definitely  unimportant  to  the 
calmer  mood *  of  middle  age.  Espe- 


20 


Hmerican  Cbaracter  21 

cially  the  impulse  toward  intellectual 
labour  is  curiously  apt  to  wane.  The 
idleness  of  the  young  is  negligible  com 
pared  to  the  idleness  of  the  middle 
years,  the  deadly  peace  that  follows  a 
certain  amount  of  successful  striving 
and  that  marks  the  end  of  true  accom 
plishment.  When,  then,  we  are  re 
joiced  by  the  vision  of  a  noble  fruitful 
activity,  which  after  nearly  forty  years 
of  work  in  the  most  exacting  and  ex 
hausting  field  of  literature  permits 
no  perfunctoriness,  no  superficiality  or 
indifference,  we  are  keen  to  trace  the 
inspiration  to  its  beginnings  and  search 
where  it  is  least  tortuous,  least  com 
plicated  by  the  contributory  streams 
of  experience,  for  its  original  quality. 
The  early  works  of  a  writer  who  has 

prmzon     "himru4JL  of    l^st.infy^  fibre,     are 

more  than  merely  the  charming  and 


22  Ibenrs  James 


touching  efforts  of  fragile  immaturity 
to  meet  the  great  mocking  initiated 
world  on  equal  terms:  they  are  fre 
quently  the  key  to  his  larger  intention  ; 
they  show  with  what  his  mind  has 
been  primarily  occupied,  before  the 
many-coloured  complexities  of  his  jour 
ney  through  life  have  come  into  ques 
tion.  If  he  has  finally  achieved  the 
effect  of  unity  in  his  later  work,  com 
pounded  of  ten  thousand  observations 
and  reflections  on  the  human  scene,  it 
is  curiously  interesting  to  see  the 
earlier  unity  formed  with  only  a  few 
predilections  and  a  handful  of  data. 

If,  especially,  a  writer  has  made 
himself  a  recorder  and  interpreter  of 
society  on  any  extended  scale,  if  he 
has  depicted  the  life  of  gregarious 
people,  and  has  reproduced  in  multi 
tudinous  figures  the  manners,  opinions, 


Bmerican  Cbaracter  23 

ideas,  and  temper  of  the  social  world 
of  his  prolonged  study,  it  is  rewarding 
to  look  back  to  his  attitude  toward 
the  narrower  social  world  of  his  early 
experience,  to  observe  how  he  laid 
the  foundations  of  intimate  knowledge 
necessary  to  his  purpose,  and  whether 
his  interest  in  civilisation  struck  at 
first  the  provincial  local  note  or  be 
trayed  an  appreciation  of  wide  hori 
zons.  As  Mr.  James  is  an  American 
and  has  chosen  for  his  most  frequently 
recurring  theme  the  attitude  in  whichV 
America  and  England  stand  toward* 
each  other  on  the  social  field,  every 
shade  of  expression  noted  by  him  in 
the  two  fair  faces  thus  confronting  one 
another  with  mingled  bewilderment, 
friendliness,  and  antagonism,  has  its 
special  value.  If  thirty  years  ago 
his  observation  was  less  practised  and 


24  fbenrp  James 

instructed  than  now,  it  was  not  less 
refined  and  thorough.  And  certainly 
we  cannot  fully  enjoy  the  splendid 
various  subjects  of  his  art  as  his 
steady  hand  guides  and  governs  it 
without  spending  a  little  time  with  it 
as  an  integral  performance,  an  organic 
whole  developed  as  is  the  way  of  life 
from  simplicity  toward  complexity, 
from  the  homogeneous  toward  the 
heterogeneous,  not  losing  the  vital  es 
sence  by  which  alone  it  is  interesting 
and  human.  Any  notice,  then,  of  the 
novels  of  Mr.  James  that  fails  to  take 
account  of  the  very  earliest,  of  Watch 
and  Ward  and  Roderick  Hudson  and 
The  Europeans,  as  a  part  of  the  pattern 
in  the  dense  rich  web  to  which  be 
long  The  Ambassadors  and  The  Golden 
Bowl,  misses,  one  might  say,  the  fun* 
of  criticism;  misses  at  all  events  the 


Hmerican  Gbaracter  25 

merry  game  of  finding  in  the  earlier* 
work  the  cross  references  and  comple-  J 
tions  and  extensions  of  the  later,   of 
finding   in   the   later   the   suggestions 
and  sympathies  and  explanations  of   I 
the  earlier,   of  bringing  them  all  to 
gether  in  the  mind  to  form  a  broad 
and  definite  impression  more  satisfy 
ing,  we  are  free  to  hope,  than  a  frag 
mentary  and  desultory  discussion  of 
even  the  most  important  parts  could 
yield. 

Mr.  James  almost  may  be  said  to 
have  begun  work  before  the  end  of  his 
first  decade.  At  all  events,  he  has 
given  us  a  charming  and  revealing 
picture  of  an  early  childhood  largely 
spent  in  poring  over  the  numbers  of 
Punch,  through  the  illustrations  of 
which  he  became  familiar  with  the 
units  of  the  vast  London  throng,  with 


26  Ibenrg  James 

the  cabmen  and  costermongers,  the 
little  pages  in  buttons,  the  gentlemen 
of  the  hunt  and  the  Row,  the  small 
boys  in  tall  hats  and  Eton  jackets, 
the  pretty  girls  in  striped  petticoats 
and  mushroom-shaped  coiffures.  He 
was  already  consciously  engaging  in 
that  preparation  for  the  trans-Atlantic 
adventure  which  has  formed  the  text 
of  so  many  of  his  later  stories.  He 
knew  the  names  of  the  London  streets, 
he  tells  us,  of  the  theatres,  and  of  many 
of  the  shops;  he  knew  what  to  expect 
from  Kensington  Gardens  and  Picca 
dilly,  he  knew  the  very  aspect  of  a 
Westminster  slum.  He  was  collecting 
his  baggage  betimes,  arranging  it  in 
portable  form,  and  with  such  com 
petence  that,  when  at  the  age  of  twelve  ]/ 
he  finally  set  forth  upon  the  travels 
that  even  then  seemed  to  him  to  have 


Hmerican  Character  27 

been  perpetually  postponed,  he  was 
ready  to  take  his  place  at  once  on 
deck,  scanning  the  new  horizon  with 
a  gaze  no  less  youthfully  eager  for  its 
precocious  initiation.  We  may  very 
well  imagine  that  to  the  eyes  of  the 
child  it  was  a  natural  substitution  of 
the  great  pictorial  world  for  the  limited 
but  largely  suggesting  picture  -  book. 
And  the  lovers  of  picture-books  and  of 
an  art  of  illustration  that  has  fallen 
into  a  trance  of  the  most  alarming 
character,  if  it  be  not  actually  dead, 
may  delight  to  fall  upon  the  descrip 
tion — it  occurs  in  an  essay  on  George 
Du  Maurier — of  the  effect  upon  a 
susceptible  adolescent  mind  of  the 
rich  and  life  -  communicating  line  of 
John  Leech.  That  the  famous  illus 
trator  assisted  in  the  forming  of  this 
childish  vision  of  an  elaborate  civilisa- 


28 


tion  is  an  agreeable  fragment  of  in 
formation  for  us,  hinting  how  great 
talents  have  always  served  each  other, 
how  masters  in  one  art  and  another 
have  played  into  each  other's  hands, 
how  many  hundreds  of  such  influences 
have  been  assimilated  in  the  making 
of  a  masterpiece. 

It  was  in  1855  that  the  young 
traveller  was  given  his  opportunity  to 
register  the  London  of  Punch  with  the 
immense  real  town.  He  found  to  his 
/abundant  joy  that  the  impression  and 
^the  reality  coincided  with  precision, 
that  the  deep,  brilliant  colours  of  the 
actual  scene  filled  the  prefigured  out 
line  as  though  placed  by  the  accurate 
hand  of  some  old  Japanese  print- 
maker  of  superior  skill,  and  thus  the 
first  note  was  struck  for  him  of  the 
gratitude  which  he  has  always  so 


Hmertcan  Cbaracter  29 

freely  expressed  toward  those  who 
have  felt,  have  analysed  and  repre 
sented  life.  The  London  passion  sur- 
vived  with  him,  renewed  itself  in  later 
years,  and  flowered  richly  in  his  work. 
It  was  a  full  generation  after  the  first 
visit  that  he  paid  his  special  tribute 
to  the  British  capital  as  ''the  particular 
spot  in  the  world  which  communicates 
the  greatest  sense  of  life,"  and  it  is  not 
unimportant  that  he  added,  "a  sense 
of  the  life  of  people  of  our  incompar 
able  English  speech,"  and  lingered  on 
the  kindness  he  felt  for  the  London 
railway  stations  as  places  where  one 
thinks 

how  great  we  all  are  together  in  the  light  of 
heaven  and  the  face  of  the  rest  of  the  world, 
with  the  bond  of  our  glorious  tongue  in 
which  we  labour  to  write  articles  and  books 
for  each  other's  candid  perusal,  how  great 
we  all  are,  and  how  great  is  the  great  city 


30  IfoenrE  James 

which  we  may  unite  fraternally  to  regard  as 
the  capital  of  our  race. 

The  London  passion,  specific  and 
explicit  as  it  is  with  him,  is,  after  all, 
the  form,  £jhe  mould  into  which  is 
poured  his  richer  passion  for  the  race 
to  which  he  belongs^  If  he  vibrates 
with  the  historic  sense  it  is  not  in  the 
mood  of  the  scholar — as  the  scholar 
oftenest  defines  himself  to  us  by  his 
works — it  is  in  the  mood  of  the  rare 
individual  to  whom  history  means 
continuity  of  experience,  who,  wrapped 
in  the  mantle  of  inherited  traditions 
and  manners  of  thought,  surveys  the 
present  also  in  its  historic  aspect, 
marks  in  it  what  has  changed  and  what 
will  change;  sees  the  much  that  is 
fluid,  the  little  that  is  fixed,  in  what 
so  lightly  passes  under  the  name  of 
"our  civilisation."  This  faculty  for 


Hmertcan  Character  31 

— 


seeing  contrasts  and  evolutions,  for  liv 
ing  on  the  one  hand  with  sensibilities 
in  full  reaction  to  the  impressions  of 
the  tremendous  carnival  of  modern 
society,  and  on  the  other  hand  with 
affections  clustering  and  clinging  about 
the  old,  the  dim,  the  ghostly,  in  relics 

of  the  past,  this  mingling  of  curiosity 

\ 

and  reverence,  constitutes  an  advan 
tage  for  the  recorder  of  manners  hardly 
to  be  over-estimated.  In  a  quite  re 
cent  book,  The  Awkward  Age,  the 
step  from  the  manners  of  the  near 
past  to  those  of  the  immediate  present 
within  a  certain  small  circle  of  the 
tangential  social  rings  making  up  the 
great  capital,  is  taken  in  a  way  to 
indicate  to  the  interested  reader  the 
constant  method  of  the  writer,  a  habit 
that  seems  unintermitting  with  him, 
of  using  the  vanished  scene  as  a  I 


32  tbenrg  3ames 

? 

touchstone  for  the  one  before  us,  of 

holding  up  his  brilliant  picture  against 
the  soft,  thick  background  of  accumu 
lated  associations  to  try  the  value  of 

its  modern  tone. 
v 

For  this  method,  however,  the  pre 
paration  is  necessarily  vast.  Inde 
fatigable  interrogation  of  the  living 
model,  complete  saturation  in  the  com 
posite  air  of  reminiscent  experience, 
without  these  there  can  be  no  fusion  of 
impressions,  no  "atmosphere"  in  the 
sense  given  to  the  word  by  the  paint 
ers;  and  it  was  the  good  fortune  of 
Mr.  James  to  be  able  to  commence 
his  studies  in  the  one  right  way  for 
achieving  his  result. 

He  was  abroad  until  1859,  and  then 
came  back  for  a  single  decade  of 
purely  American  life  before  he  again 
packed  his  still  slender  and  portable 


Bmerican  Cbaracter  33 

outfit  for  the  return  to  England  that 
was  to  separate  him  conclusively  from 
his  native  country.  This  decade,  more 
or  less  unconsciously  dedicated,  no 
doubt,  to  the  observation  of  American 
customs  and  character,  was  to  have 
upon  his  later  work  an  effect  peculiarly 
interesting  to  the  American  critic.  It 
is  easy  to  exaggerate  the  effect,  and 
the  safer  course  might  be  to  ignore  it, 
to  assume  that  the  later  work  would 
have  been  substantially  the  same  with 
out  the  brief  period  of  study  in  the 
Harvard  law -school,  of  escape  on  dusky 
winter  afternoons  into  the  glow  of  Mr. 
^Lowell's  "learned  lamplight,"  of  look 
ing  out  upon  beaten  snow  and  wooden 
houses  and  lonely  roads,  of  looking 
in  upon  crowding  imaginations  of  mot 
ley  foreign  splendours,  of  southern  col 
our,  of  Italy  and  England  and  bright, 

3 


34  Ibenrs  5ames 

logical  France.  But  the  safer  course 
in  some  instances  frankly  declines  to 
be  possible,  and  no  deeply  enlisted 
reader  of  the  novels  of  Mr.  James  can 
forget  that  early  background,  that 
familiarity  with  the  cool,  clear  New 
England  life,  to  which  his  mature 
fancy  repeatedly  returns,  whimsically, 
critically,  with  detachment,  but  with 
how  much  also  of  appreciation  and 
understanding. 

As  early  as  1865  he  began  to  con 
tribute  stories  to  the  Atlantic  Monthly, 
and  naturally  these  had  in  more  than 
one  case  the  war  background.  They 
were  not  very  remarkable,  nor  did 
they  possess  many  of  the  special 
qualities  of  the  later  work.  In  only 
one  instance,  that  of  the  story  entitled 
Gabrielle  de  Bergerac,  in  which  the 
American  note  is  not  struck,  do  we  get 


Hmertcan  Cbaracter  35 

a  hint  of  the  free  and  gracious  manner 
so  soon  to  be  acquired.  Yet  they  have 
a  present  interest,  since  it  is  easy  to 
detect  in  them  a  theory  not  altogether 
dissociated  from  the  convictions  rul 
ing  The  Sacred  Fount  and  The  Golden 
Bowl.  A  search  for  motives  of  action. 
a  freedom:  from  Sentimentality, 


marked  respect  for  accuracy  of  obser 
vation  are  there,  and  if  it  is  not  yet 
the  art  that  conceals  art,  art  neverthe 
less  is  present,  lending  her  lovely  as 
pect  to  the  timid  interpretations  of  an 
inexperienced  hand. 

An  article,  moreover,  on  George 
Eliot  in  the  Atlantic  for  October,  1866, 
sets  forth  certain  principles  of  the 
novelist's  craft  already  definitely  con 
ceived  and  firmly  stated.  Challeng 
ing  the  anti-climax  in  Adam  Bede,  the 
young  author  suggests  that  it  might 


36  Ibenrs  James 

very  well  have  been  left  to  the  reader 
to    deduce    from    Adam's    character, 
temperament,  and  state  of  mind  his 
1     ultimate  marriage  with  Dinah. 

In  every  novel  [he  observes]  the  work  is 
divided  between  the  writer  and  the  reader, 
but  the  writer  makes  the  reader  very  much 

(as  he  makes  his  characters.  When  he  makes 
him  ill,  that  is,  makes  him  indifferent,  he 
does  no  work,  the  writer  does  all.  When  he 
makes  him  well,  that  is,  makes  him  inter 
ested,  then  the  reader  does  quite  half  the 
labour.  In  making  such  a  deduction  as  I 
have  just  indicated  [that  of  Adam's  probable 
marriage],  the  reader  would  be  doing  but  his 
share  of  the  task;  the  grand  point  is  to  get 
him  to  make  it.  I  hold  that  there  is  a 
way.  It  is  perhaps  a  secret,  but  until  it  is 
found  out,  I  think  that  the  art  of  story 
telling  cannot  be  said  to  have  approached 
perfection. 

This  artistic  requirement  which  he 
was  not  to  forget  is  evolved  with 
genuine  penetration,  and  other  points 


Bmertcan  Cbaracter  37 

chosen  for  emphasis  prove  that  already 
he  had  thought  about  what  kind  of  a 
novelist  he  intended  to  make  of  himself, 
and  that  his  struggle  with  his  difficult 
medium  was  to  be  systematic.  It 
would  hardly  be  fair  to  quote  exten 
sively  from  the  clever  little  article, 
rich  as  it  is  in  suggestion,  or  to  infer 
from  it  an  inflexible  plan.  The  har 
ness  a  young  man  of  three  and  twenty 
makes  for  his  genius  is  seldom  stout 
enough  to  hold  any  but  the  tamest 
spirit  for  an  extended  term  of  years. 
We  may,  h.owever,  give  ourselves  the 
satisfaction — a  rare  one — of  perceiving 
at  the  outset  that  there  was  a  plan 
well -cogitated  and  serious  and  we  may, 
perhaps,  extract  one  more  passage  for 
the  fulness  of  its  significance : 

They   [the  novels  of  George  Eliot]  offer  a 
completeness,  a  rich  density  of  detail,  which 


38  f>enr£  3ames 

could  be  the  fruit  only  of  a  long  term  of  con 
scious  contact — such  as  would  make  it  much 
more  difficult  for  the  author  to  fall  into  the 
perversion  and  suppression  of  factvthan  to 
set  them  down  literally. 

An  acute  critic  might  fairly  have 
predicted  at  this  time  that  a  rich 
density  of  detail  would  one  day  char 
acterise  the  work  of  Mr.  James  himself, 
and  also  that  it  would  be  the  fruit  of 
nothing  less  than  conscious  contact 
with  a  world  of  multitudinous  ap 
pearances  by  a  mind  that  found  it 
more  difficult  to  be  perversive  than 
truthful.  The  secret  hidden  from  the 
critical  eye  was  the  special  field  of  his 
labour.  In  England,  novels  of  vari 
ous  kinds  were  swarming.  After  a 
hundred  years  of  as  much  struggle, 
error,  compromise,  and  triumph  over 
adverse  conditions  as  ever  went  to  the 


Hmerican  Gbaracter  39 

founding  of  a  nation,  the  novel  had 
made  its  place  as  an  art  and  as  a 
record  of  life.  It  was  the  high  tide  of 
what  might  be  called  its  legitimate  pop 
ularity,  a  popularity,  that  is,  involving 
the  intelligent  consideration  of  serious 
minds.  Thackeray  had  died  leaving  his 
Becky,  his  Blanche  Amory,  his  Ethel 
Newcome,  and  his  Beatrix  to  the  pro 
longed  and  energetic  discussion  of  his 
critics.  Dickens  had  etched  all  the  fig 
ures  variees  of  his  large  queer  London 
plate,  with  its  rich  brutality  of  line,  its 
coarse  discriminations,  its  inestimable 
pictorial  value.  Anthony  Trollope  had 
just  finished  The  Last  Chronicles  of 
Barset,  and  with  it  had  closed  the  door 
on  his  masterpieces.  George  Eliot  had 
published  her  three  great  books  and 
Meredith  had  written  Richard  Feverel 
and  Rhoda  Fleming.  Even  Thomas 


40  Ifoenrp  James 

Hardy  had  already  appeared  on  the 
horizon  with  his  Desperate  Remedies. 
Nearly  twenty  years  before,  Balzac,  in 
France,  had  been  cut  down  by  the 
fury  of  his  industry.  It  was  a  world, 
certainly,  in  which  a  young  novelist 
with  a  plan  needed  to  keep  all  his  wits 
about  him  to  hold  to  his  individual 
path:  to  be  a  student  yet  not  bound 
to  a  master ;  to  be  plastic,  susceptible, 
teachable  and  yet  definite,  sincere,  and 
persistent;  to  cherish  his  freshness 
and  bloom  and  avoid  remaining  un 
sophisticated  and  unintelligent.  When 
Watch  and  Ward  appeared  in  the 
Atlantic,  in  1871  as  the  serial  for  the 
year,  it  offered  no  positive  promise 
that  such  a  feat  was  within  its  author's 
range.  It  was  neither  imitative  nor 
strikingly  original.  It  was  a  pleasant 
little  story,  not  without  touches  of 


Hmertcan  Character  41 

melodrama,  dealing  with  the  predica 
ment  of  a  young  girl,  whose  guardian 
is  in  love  with  her.  The  fact  that  she 
owes  to  him  her  salvation  from  a  life 
of  destitution  constitutes,  however,  a 
situation  not  entirely  unworthy  of  the 
author  of  The  Wings  of  a  Dove.  No 
one  has  ever  more  justly  drawn  the 
relations  of  obligation  and  gratitude, 
and  in  his  first  extended  novel  his 
future  mastery  in  this  difficult  line  at 
least  is  foreshadowed.  The  figures  of 
Roger  and  Nora,  despite  their  prim 
ness  of  outline,  have  thoroughly  the 
aspect  of  life  by  virtue  of  their  deep, 
their  infrangible  and  incorruptible  del 
icacy.  The  conditions  weighing  upon 
them  were  not  common,  but  their 
interest  depended  on  the  complete 
lack  of  vulgarity  in  the  chief  actors  of 
the  crude  little  drama.  Character  as 


42  Tfoenrg  5ames 

brought  out  by  the  plot  was  the  essen 
tial  matter,  and  thus  at  the  very 
beginning  the  genuine  note  of  the 
author's  individuality  was  struck. 

Watch  and  Ward  was  followed  by  a 
group  of  short  stories,  some  of  which 
have  been  republished,  and  others  of 
which  lie  deeply  buried  in  the  early 
numbers  of  the  extinct  Galaxy.  They 
are  admirable  performances,  real  and 
human  in  feeling,  most  of  them  touched 
Vwith  such  tragedy  as  lies  in  the  situa- 
/\ion  of  sensitive  temperaments  and 
talents  placed  at  the  mercy  of  events. 
They  show  a  spirited  interest  in  psycho 
logical  problems,  with  which  they  deal 
at  the  same  time  quite  naturally  and 
without  the  forced  or  pedantic  sugges 
tion  from  which  professed  students  of 
psychology  seem  to  find  it  so  difficult 
to  escape.  A  strong  sense  of  the 


Hmerican  Gbaracter  43 

mystery  of  the  human  mind  is  brought 
home  to  us  by  such  a  story  as  The  Last 
of  the  Valerii  or  Madame  de  Mauves, 
but  it  is  tempered  and  lightened  by  the 
fascinating  background  of  the  visible 
world  against  which  the  most  lurid 
accidents  are  set.  We  may  read  posi 
tively  with  a  feeling  of  tranquillity  a 
story  of  even  the  darkest  crime  if  on 
every  page  we  are  detained  and  soothed 
by  such  pictures  as  that  of  Oxford  in 
The  Passionate  Pilgrim,  or  that  of  the 
quiet  old  church  of  San  Miniato  in  The 
Madonna  of  the  Future.  The  human 
creature  is,  naturally,  not  so  finely 
indicated.  We  receive  an  impression 
of  much  intensity  of  mind  and  heart,  of 
a  haunting  curiosity  concerning  the 
supernatural,  of  remarkably  significant 
dialogue ;  and  from  time  to  time  we  are 
face  to  face  with  a  figure  as  success- 


44  Ifoenrp  5ames 

fully  executed  as  it  is  ingeniously  con 
ceived — such  a  figure  as  Eugene  Picker 
ing  or  Longmore  in  Madame  de  Mauves 
— but  in  general  the  extreme  care  with 
which  the  persons  of  the  drama  are  con 
structed  is  not  yet  sufficiently  hidden ; 
they  are  rather  barely  and  austerely 
before  us  with  the  somewhat  gaunt 
lines  of  their  physiognomy  well  in 
view.  They  are  like  the  firststudifis 
of  a  painter  more  intent  upon  master 
ing  his  instrument  and  reproducing 
with  accuracy  the  object  before  him 
than  upon  attaining  immediately  a 
handsome  picture  for  the  applause  of  an 
undiscriminating  public.  This  is  the 
characteristic  quality  of  all  the  early 
work,  most  obvious  of  course  where  the 
problem  is  most  difficult.  By  no  means 
devoid  of  the  beauty  that  abides  in 
"style,"  these  early  tales  are  neverthe- 


Hmertcan  Cbaracter  45 

less  too  rich  in  matter  and  ideas  to  fit 
themselves  easily  to  a  personal  diction. 
Some  of  them,  The  Passionate  Pilgrim 
in  particular,  give  the  impression  of  a 
knobby  surface  of  all  sorts  of  thoughts 
and  observations  on  which  the  robe  of 
words  hangs,  not  loosely,  but  with 
queer  misadjustments  and  places  where 
strain  is  apparent.  It  is  clear  enough 
that  the  ideas  came  first  and  were  of 
first  importance,  and  that  the  chief 
use  to  their  author  of  lovely  words, 
susceptible  as  he  proved  himself  to 
them,  was  to  make  his  thoughts  more 
clearly  perceived,  to  carry  light  into 
the  dark  depths  and  make  shine  the 
idea  found  in  an  obscure  corner  of  the 
mind. 

There  was,  in  a  word,  nothing 
dilletante  in  the  earliest  product  of  Mr. 
James's  mind.  It  was  clear  enough 


46  1bent£  James 

that  he  was  prepared  to  probe  deeply 
into  the  spiritual  essence  of  humanity 
and  that  the  special  and  the  curious 
had  their  charm  for  him.  It  was  not 
so  clear  that  he  was  to  throw  a  vivid 
light  on  contemporary  manners;  and 
it  was  not  discernible  at  all,  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  many  of  his  characters 
happen  to  be  Americans  in  Europe, 
that  the  international  relation  was  to 
furnish  him  with  his  most  important 
and  sustained  theme.  It  was,  how 
ever,  unmistakable  that  he  was  to  be  a 
writer  dedicated  to  illumination.  The 
habit  of  reading  him  sharpens  our  ca- 
j  pacity  for  discerning  truth.  Before  he 
was  thirty,  he  was  "striking  matches," 
to  use  a  phrase  of  his  later  years,  for 
us  to  see  the  finer  facts  surrounding 
us :  facts  of  spirit  wherever  the  human 
comes  into  play,  and  in  the  case  of 


Hmerican  Cbaracter  47 

inarticulate  landscape,  exquisite  facts 
of  surface,  recognitions  of  composition 
and  colour  in  the  external  world  that 
make  in  his  work  a  series  of  pictures  so 
expressively  painted  as  to  constitute 
in  themselves  a  definite  achievement 
for  art. 

Since  his  strength  was  chiefly7  to  lie 
in  combining  close  observation  of  the 
innumerable  phenomena  of  the  sur 
face  of  life  with  indefatigable  explora 
tion  of  the  recondite  truths  of  the 
spirit,  it  was  his  great  opportunity  to 
have  access  to  a  society  permeated  ^ 
by  fresh  thought  and  to  study  that  " 
society  against  the  background  of  the 
older  European  civilisation,  instead 
of  seeing  it  within  its  local  limits  only. 
It  was  his  virtue  as  an  artist  that  he 
recognised  promptly  a  state  of  things 
ready  to  his  hand,  a  region  of  manners 


48  Denr£  James 


which  he  could  explore  almost  as  a 
pioneer,  an  environment  upon  which 
he  could  steadily  draw  for  animating 
suggestion.  If  he  was  not  to  conceive 
a  second  Comedie  Humaine  his  Comedie 
Sociale  was,  nevertheless,  on  a  scale 
worthy  of  a  profound  student  of  life. 
He  never  committed  himself  to  a  plan 
more  vast  than  he  has  found  it  possi 
ble  to  carry  on.  Certain  limitations  of 
taste  and  interest  closed  about  him  at 
the  beginning,  and  apparently  he  has 
never  for  a  moment  deviated  from  the 
belief  so  fervently  expressed  by  Joubert 
and  so  fervently  approved  by  Arnold, 
that 

with  the  fever  of  the  senses,  the  delirium  of 
the  passions,  the  weakness  of  the  spirit;  with 
the  storms  of  the  passing  time  and  with  the 
great  scourges  of  human  life,  —  hunger,  thirst, 
dishonour,  diseases,  and  death,  —  authors  may 
as  long  as  they  like  go  on  making  novels 


Bmerican  Cbaractet  49 

which  shall  harrow  our  hearts,  but  the  soul 
says  all  the  while,  "You  hurt  me." 

Not  that  these  cruelties  of  human 
existence  have  no  place  in  his  novels — 
he  would  be  a  strange  seeker  after  the 
vraie  veritt  who  should  ignore  their 
presence  in  the  world;  but  no  author 
ever  made  them  less  the  reason  of  his 
writing,  none  ever  more  continually 
penetrated  beyond  them  to  the  inner 
life  which  is  so  largely  independent  of 
them,  none  ever  more  earnestly  con 
cerned  himself  with  the  ideal  and 
refining  elements  of  human  nature 
while  'clearly  bending  a  critical  vision 
•upon  its  idiosyncrasies,  external  and 
inner. 

In  his  earlier  essay  on  Balzac  Mr. 
James  expressed  his  opinion  that  only 
after  a  man  has  arrived  at  full  maturity, 
only  after  he  is  thirty,  to  give  a  round 


50  IbentE  James 

number  to  the  period,  does  he  produce 
a  thoroughly  satisfactory  novel.  It 
was  in  his  fourth  decade  that  he  him 
self  produced  Roderick  Hudson,  The 
American,  The  Europeans,  Daisy  Miller, 
Confidence,  An  International  Episode, 
Washington  Square,  The  Portrait  of  a 
Lady,  and  The  Siege  of  London,  and  he 
had  profited  by  his  period  of  prepara 
tion  to  the  extent  that  none  of  these 
show  a  lack  of  competence  to  handle 
the  material  or  a  lack  of  knowledge  of 
his  field,  greatly  as  his  capacity  was  to 
deepen  and  broaden  with  the  progress 
of  the  pensive  years.  The  first  to 
appear,  Roderick  Hudson,  is  compactly 
woven,  a  tissue  of  recorded  facts  in 
which  the  pattern  of  the  idea  is  clearly 
outlined.  A  certain  conscientiousness 
of  treatment,  an  absence  of  improvisa 
tion,  an  obvious  desire  to  make  every- 


Hmertcan  Cbaracter  51 

thing  clear,  to  portray  convincingly 
the  physiognomies,  both  physical  and 
mental,  of  the  characters,  the  particular 
places  in  which  from  time  to  time  they 
happen  to  be,  their  occupations  and 
amusements,  above  all  their  relations 
to  one  another,  is  the  conspicuous 
quality  in  the  book,  which,  in  spite  of 
the  somewhat  formal  presentation,  so 
different  from  the  later  freedom  and 
luxuriance  of  metaphor  and  image, 
bears  a  striking  likeness  to  many  of  its 
successors.  It  relates  the  history  of  a 
young  sculptor  immured  in  a  law  office 
in  a  New  England  village  and  panting 
for  freedom  and  art.  He  is  rescued  by 
a  rich  youth  who  on  his  side  is  panting 
for  an  opportunity  intelligently  to  do  a 
good  deed,  and  who,  recognising  the 
quality  of  the  work  produced  by 
Roderick's  untrained  hand,  proposes 


52  IbentE  -James 

to  supply  the  needed  training  in  Rome. 
Roderick,  strong  in  genius,  but  weak  in 
will  and  character,  falls  under  the  sway 
of  Christina  Light,  an  interesting, 
death-dealing,  irresponsible  beauty  of 
whom  we  hear  again  in  The  Princess 
Casamassima.  Every  part  of  the  story 
is  highly  defined  and  finished  with 
minute  detail.  We  are  told  a  great 
deal  about  every  one;  the  history  of 
each  character  almost  from  birth  is 
traced  with  a  patient  elaboration  that 
reminds  us  of  how  often  the  name  of 
Balzac  is  mentioned  by  its  author. 
The  principal  exhibition  is  of  Roder 
ick's  character,  allowed  to  bloom  with 
shattering  swiftness  in  the  rich  air  of 
the  papal  city,  but  each  of  Roderick's 
companions  also  is  a  concrete  human 
being  so  visualised  as  to  be  entirely 
recognisable;  these,  however,  vary 


Hmerican  Cbaracter  53 

greatly  from  one  another  in  interest. 
A  liking,  not  by  any  means  limited  to 
the  early  novels,  for  contrasting  bril 
liant  figures  with  those  in  which  an 
almost  violent  reserve,  an  almost  op 
pressive  quietness,  is  conspicuous,  finds 
expression  in  the  portraits  of  the  two 
women,  Mary  Garland  and  the  extra 
ordinary  Christina.  The  former  is  the 
dull  and  colourless  forerunner  of  such 
exquisitely  beautiful  creations  as  Milly 
Theale,  Nanda  Brookenham,  and  the 
nameless  young  woman  at  "Cockers." 
Perhaps  nothing  would  serve  better  to 
mark  time  and  progress  than  to  place 
one  of  these  perfectly  affirmed,  deli 
cately  represented  heroines  against  the 
honest  and  rather  heavy  image  of  Mary 
Garland  sitting  by  her  eternal  candle 
busy  with  her  interminable  sewing. 
Mary  is  what  many  of  her  sisters  in 


54  t>enr£ 


fiction  are:  what  Laura  Pendennis 
is,  with  her  prayers  and  tears;  what 
Dinah  Morris  is,  with  her  cap  and  red 
dish  hair;  what  Florence  Dombey  is, 
and  Lucy,  beloved  of  Richard  Feverel, 
—  merely  a  likeness  in  monotone  of  a 
human  figure,  essentially  human,  un 
deniably  real  and  solid,  but  without 
that  subtlety  of  spiritual  life  to  be 
communicated  only  by  the  deepest 
insight  on  the  part  of  the  artist  into 
the  human  soul.  They  are  plain  '  *  good 
likenesses"  and  as  such  to  be  treasured 
in  the  circle  of  sitting  -  room  decora 
tions,  but  none  of  them  is  the  mysteri 
ous  evocation  of  a  personality  for  which 
lovers  of  art  would  cross  continents 
and  seas.  Christina  Light,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  a  heroine  to  play  her  part 
successfully  in  any  picture  at  almost 
any  stage  of  her  author's  career;  a 


Bmerican  Cbaracter  55 

mysterious  creature,  light  and  buoyant 
as  a  graceful  ship  just  launched, 
fascinating  in  her  eccentric  outline 
and  glowing  with  physical  beauty  and 
charm. 

All  through  the  book  people  explain 
themselves  to  each  other  and  explain 
each  other  to  themselves.  All  the 
investigation  into  character  and  tem 
perament  is  done  in  the  open;  nothing 
is  concealed;  it  is  easy  to  follow  the 
mental  processes  by  which  the  author 
seeks  to  make  himself  "privy  to  the 
mystery  of  knowledge"  in  all  that 
concerns  life,  and  it  would  be  a  rash 
reader  who  should  deny  the  special 
attraction  of  this  slightly  clumsy  and 
touching  candour  of  curiosity  and 
effort.  There  was  already  the  talent 
noted  in  the  article  on  Henrik  Ibsen, 
as  characteristic  of  that  dramatist's 


56  1foenr£  James 

remarkable  art — the  talent  ''for  pro 
ducing  an  intensity  of  interest  by 
means  incorruptibly  quiet,"  by  an 
"almost  demure  preservation  of  the 
appearance  of  the  usual."  And  there 
was  also  an  occasional  charmed  glance 
at  the  beauty  of  the  outer  world,  as 
in  the  description  of  Rowland's  walk 
toward  Fiesole,  with  its  quotation  from 
Browning  naively  brought  in.  There 
was,  moreover,  a  well -developed  plot; 
a  highly  professional  construction,  an 
ordered  drama  in  which  the  interest 
is  sharply  broken  off  only  to  follow 
the  imagination  along  suggested  paths. 
It  was  in  fact  a  complete  instance  of  a 
prophetic  achievement.  Yet  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  Roderick  is  taken  from 
a  Massachusetts  village  to  Rome  for 
his  artistic  development,  we  find  not 
more  than  a  phrase  or  two  from  which 


Enter  lean  Cbaracter  57 

the  reader  may  infer  that  his  tragic 
history  is  to  mark  the  beginning  of  the 
long  series  of  international  dramas. 
This  prophecy  may  be  detected  in  the 
account  of  Roderick's  little  statuette 
of  a  fair  youth  drinking  thirstily  from 
a  gourd: 

"Tell  me  this,"  said  Rowland,  "do  you 
mean  anything  by  your  young  Water- 
drinker?  Does  he  represent  an  idea?  Is 
he  a  symbol?"  Hudson  raised  his  eye 
brows  and  gently  scratched  his  head.  "Why, 
he  's  youth,  you  know;  he  's  innocence,  he  's 
health,  he  's  curiosity.  Yes,  he  's  a  good 
many  things."  "And  is  the  cup  also  a  sym 
bol?"  "The  cup  is  knowledge,  pleasure, 
experience.  Anything  of  that  kind!  "  "Well, 
he  's  guzzling  in  earnest,"  said  Rowland. 
Hudson  gave  a  vigorous  nod.  "Aye,  poor 
fellow,  he  's  thirsty!  " 

Thirsty  America  was  in  the  author's 
mind,  no  doubt,  thirsty  then  as  she  is 
not  now  for  conditions  so  difficult  in 


58  Ibenrs  James 

that  memorable  past  to  attain,  thirsty 
then  for  ideals  of  art  and  culture  now 
cheapened  somewhat  by  their  acces 
sibility,  and  not,  apparently,  so  magical 
in  their  allurement.  In  reading  Roder 
ick  Hudson  to-day  it  is  impossible  not 
to  let  the  mind  wander  from  the  book 
to  the  reality,  so  close  the  book  obvi 
ously  is  to  the  reality,  and  from  the 
past  to  the  greatly  different  present; 
it  is  during  these  vagrant  moments 
that  one  perceives  how  gently  the  tone 
of  time  has  descended  upon  the  pages ; 
they  have  mellowed  and  taken  on  a 
unity  of  colour  and  impression  that 
could  not  have  been  recognised  in 
them  when  they  came  fresh  from  the 
press, — the  natural  effect  of  age  upon 
the  sincere  expression  of  truth  in  any 
form  of  art.  What  may  have  seemed 
a  little  sharp  and  thin  at  the  moment 


Hmertcan  Cbaracter  59 

it  was  written  is  now  seen  to  have 
conformed  to  the  slightly  sharp  and 
thin  quality  of  the  scenes  and  natures 
described;  is  seen,  too,  as  the  natural 
note  of  inexperience,  and  especially  is 
seen  to  be  the  result  of  the  strong 
sense  of  responsibility;  the  instinct  of 
a  fine  and  subtle  truthfulness  triumph 
ing  over  a  rich  imagination  in  the  effort 
to  see  life  as  it  is.  It  was  the  kind  of 
practice  that  makes  perfect  if  carried 
on  to  the  logical  end ;  it  was  the  bond 
age  that  makes  freedom;  it  was  the 
attention  to  truth  of  substance  and 
truth  of  manner  that  makes — in  time — 
beauty. 

In  The  American,  that  followed  Rod- 
erick  Hudson  after  an  interval  of  two 
years,  the  step  toward  beauty  is  noth 
ing  less  than  a  stride.  It  carries  the 
author,  previously  punctilious  to  the 


60  Ifoenrs  James 

verge  of  stiffness,  into  flowery  gardens 
of  freedom,  a  freedom  marked  by  his 
easier  handling  of  his  figures,  his  light 
ness  of  touch  in  manipulating  his  greater 
plot,  and  above  all  by  his  manner  of 
good  fellowship  with  his  reader,  that 
manner  which  was  to  carry  him  so  far 
in  the  mystery  of  style.  Already  he 
stood  sufficiently  aloof  from  his  own 
country  to  see  the  relation  borne  by  the 
American  to  the  foreigner.  The  beau 
tiful  study  of  Christopher  Newman  is 
accomplished  with  great  simplicity  in 
the  mild,  winning  manner  of  the  later 
novels.  Uncontentious,  delicate,  gen 
erous  in  his  relation  towards  others, 
frankly  without  superficial  taste,  but 
with  endless  inner  refinements  of  kind 
ness  and  conscience,  Newman  stands 
against  the  background  of  family 
arrogance  and  tradition  among  the 


Bmerican  Gbaracter  61 

French  nobility,  a  presentation  of  his 
country's  quality  such  as  the  unfor 
tunate  Roderick  might  have  been 
proud  to  equal  in  a  sculptured  sym 
bol.  The  charm  of  Madame  de  Cintre, 
mary tred  in_  the  great  French  cause 
of  "family,",  is  no  less  potent  and 
is  communicated  by  the  same  mild 
method.  The  love  of  form  account 
able  for  the  inflexibility  of  Roderick 
Hudson  had  already  passed  into  the 
flowing  expression  of  culture.  Cult 
ure,  Matthew  Arnold  has  determined 
for  us  by  two  rounded  definitions,  the 
familiar  ''knowing  the  best  that  has 
been  thought  and  known  in  the  world" 
and  the  less  familiar  "getting  the 
power  through  reading  to  estimate 
the  proportion  and  relation  in  what 
we  read."  Whether  Mr.  James  got 
it  through  reading  or  through  writing, 


62  Ibenrg  3ames 

in  The  American  a  similar  power  to 
realise  proportion  and  relation  is  pre 
sent  in  visible  and  appreciable  shape. 
It  is  the  first  purely  artistic  result  of 
his  passion  for  artistic  embodiment  of 
thought.  The  care  for  art  in  it  is  ex 
treme,  and  it  is  somewhat  significant 
that  this  early  writing  has  so  little  of 
the  tremulous  sensibility  in  which 
youth  abounds;  and  that  it  has  so 
much  painstaking,  so  much  groping 
concern  for  propriety  of  expression,  so 
much  careful  preparation  of  the  matter. 
It  betrays  the  fact  that  the  preoccupa 
tion  of  its  author  with  form  is  not  an 
acquired  and  grafted  characteristic. 
It  was  at  the  beginning  his  strength 
and  his  weakness,  yet  always  more  his 
strength  than  his  weakness.  It  was 
the  latter  in  fact  only  so  far  as  it 
helped  to  suppress  the  expression  of  a 


Hmerican  Cbaracter  63 

poetic  perception  as  rare  as  it  is  ex 
quisite.  When  in  the  fire  of  Spring  a 
young  talent  is  cautious,  one  too  in 
sistently  remembers  that 

The  Bird  of  Time  has  but  a  little  way 
To  flutter — and  the  Bird  is  on  the  Wing. 

It  is  not,  however,  to  the  purpose  to 
think  of  how  a  talent  would  have  been 
had  it  been  different.  It  is  difficult 
enough  to  think  truly  how  in  itself 
it  is.  In  the  case  of  Mr.  James 
caution  and  responsibility  fastening 
themselves  on  the  shoulders  of  youth 
surely  sufficiently  have  justified  their 
grasp.  The  poetry  has  found  its  way 
out  and  has  been  perhaps  strength 
ened  and  enriched  by  the  husbandry 
that  would  not  let  it  push  prematurely 
into  sight.  Self  -  consciousness  with 
him  has  passed  into  poise,  cultivation 
has  brought  forth  luxuriant  bloom. 


64  Ifoenn?  James 

And  the  fact  that  he  composed  from 
the  beginning  with  his  eye  "on  the 
object,"  that  he  saturated  himself 
from  year  to  year  with  the  experience 
upon  which  it  was  his  steady  intention 
to  draw  for  his  pictures  of  life,  gave 
his  work  the  consistent  quality  of 
fidelity,  the  quality  that  wraps  it 
together.  He  gave  his  perceptions 
that  play  essential  to  their  growth, 
recorded  the  reports  they  made  to  him 
with  accurate  care,  and  held  himself  as 
disinterestedly  as  possible  in  the  atti 
tude  of  a  spectator.  Full  of  vitality 
and  curiosity,  neither  of  which  ap 
parently  has  waned  in  the  course  of  a 
long  service,  he  curbed  his  sensibility 
and  the  egoism  which,  since  he  was 
young,  he  must  have  had,  with  a 
remarkable  respect  for  the  conditions 
by  which  good  literature  is  nourished. 


Hmertcan  Cbaracter  65 

If  he  was  " detached,"  if  he  did  not 
give  himself  away  in  his  books  as 
much  as  Dickens  or  Thackeray  or 
George  Eliot,  he  was  not  less  of  his 
race  and  nation  for  that.  To  be 
transparent,  effusive,  gushing,  he  says 
in  his  article  on  Daudet  "has  never 
been  and  will  never  be  the  ideal  of  us 
of  English  speech/'  and  the  dignity 
of  his  early  style  suggests  the  normal 
later  flowering  in  the  manner  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  genius. 

The  American  is  the  novel  which 
we  may  take  as  on  the  whole  per 
haps  most  representative  of  his  early 
quality,  and  as  in  its  kind  a  master 
piece  of  simple  rather  than  complex 
art,  but  unmistakably  of  art.  It  con 
tains  a  number  of  important  char 
acters — none,  in  fact,  that  can  be  called 
unimportant,  so  closely  is  each  fitted 


66 


into  the  scheme  or  plot  and  made  to 
contribute  to  the  development. 

Christopher  Newman,  however,  the 
"American,"  entirely  dominates  the 
interesting  group.  To  him  is  owing 
the  profound  sense  of  life  in  the  book. 
If  Mr.  James  did  intend,  as  by  the 
title  we  are  justified  in  assuming,  to 
make  him  the  image  of  his  countiy, 
the  concrete  representation  of  an  ab 
straction,  he  accomplished  his  object 
in  a  way  very  different  from  that 
pursued  by  other  inventors  of  our 
supposed  type.  For  one  thing,  he  ab 
solutely  refrained  from  feeding  the 
vanity  of  his  countrymen  by  mak 
ing  his  American  an  incarnation  of  a 
moral  or  political  or  national  idea. 
The  democratic  spirit  of  Christopher 
Newman,  if  by  democratic  spirit  we 
mean  the  pride  of  liberty  to  do  as  one 


Bmerican  Character  67 

pleases  without  consulting  others,  is 
sufficiently  obvious;  but  it  is  intro 
duced  without  the  tacit  glorification 
of  its  virtues  common  to  writers  of 
less  subtlety  and  less  breeding.  ' '  One' si 
theories,  after  all,  matter  little,"  New-f 
man's  creator  somewhere  says  in  ref 
erence  to  his  method  of  pursuing 
culture,  "it  is  one's  humour  that  is  the 
great  thing. ' '  The  American' s  humour 
is  so  much  the  greatest  thing  about 
him  that,  despite  his  shrewdness,  he 
survives  in  direct  line  with  Colonel 
Newcome  and  the  good,  dull  Dobbin, 
as  one  of  the  gentlest  figures  in  fiction. 
It  was  a  happy  result,  the  happiest, 
of  an  attempt  to  embody  our  national 
characteristic,  that,  in  place  of  the 
flamboyant  merits  on  which  in  litera 
ture  we  have  more  or  less  depended  for 
impressiveness,  we  should  see  our- 


68  Ibenrp  James 


selves  depicted  as  possessing  the  spirit 
ual  delicacy  ordinarily  associated  with. 
races  of  immemorial  politeness.]  New 
man  has  in  due  degree  the  idio 
syncrasies  that  make  for  common 
recognition  of  him  as  an  American 
product.  He  is  a  money-maker,  who 
has  won  his  way  through  difficulties 
usual  enough  in  the  generation  of 
Americans  to  which  he  belongs.  At 
the  age  of  fourteen  he  had  been  set 
adrift  in  the  Western  world  :  *  '  necessity 
had  taken  him  by  his  slim  young 
shoulders  and  pushed  him  into  the 
street  to  earn  that  night's  supper."  It 
illustrates  the  choice  of  adventure  com 
monly  made  by  Mr.  James  that  history 
begins  after  the  material  difficulties  are 
surmounted  and  the  problem  has  be 
come,  how  to  enjoy  the  material  welfare. 
His  democracy  of  enjoyment  is  a 


Hmerican  Cbaracter  69 

part  of  his  Americanism.  Taking  his 
holiday  in  Paris  he  likes  the  great 
gilded  rooms  of  his  showy  hotel;  he 
likes  driving  rapidly  and  expensively 
through  the  country  to  see  the  monu 
ments  of  history;  his  ideal  of  giving 
a  ''party"  for  the  celebration  of  his 
engagement  with  the  lovely  Claire  de 
Cintre  is  to  invite  every  one  who  has 
shown  him  a  minimum  of  politeness 
and  every  one  with  whom  he  has  a 
shadow  of  friendship,  and  to  entertain 
them  with  singers  and  actresses  of 
first  quality  hired  at  great  cost  for  the 
charming  and  intimate  occasion.  On 
the  other  hand  his  susceptibility  to 
finer  impressions  is  equally  marked, 
and,  with  a  subtlety  of  suggestion 
worthy  of  the  cause,  this  susceptibility 
is  made  to  appear  also  a  part  of  New 
man's  Americanism,  a  part  so  integral 


70  Ibenrs  5ames 

as  to  seem  the  real  essence  of  every 
thing,  the  element  impossible  to  change 
without  destroying  the  organism. 

"You  are  the  great  Western  Bar 
barian,"  Mrs.  Tristram  says  to  him, 
"stepping  forth  in  his  innocence  and 
might,  gazing  a  while  at  this  poor 
effete  Old  World,  and  then  swooping 
down  on  it."  To  this  indictment 
Newman  replies  with  remonstrance. 
"I  am  a  highly  civilised  man,"  he 
contends,  "I  stick  to  that.  If  you 
don't  believe  it  I  should  like  to  prove 
it  to  you."  The  extent  to  which  he 
proves  it  is  the  psychological  basis  of 
the  story.  The  extent  of  his  politeness  N 
is  the  touchstone  by  which  the  differ-  / 
ent  characters  are  tested.  \  If  the  word 
appears  to  minify  his  frank  and  sturdy 
temper  it  can  only  be  because  we 
allow  it  a  superficial  meaning  alone 


Hmerican  Cbaracter 


and  decline  to  trace  it  to  its  deep 
i  source  in  consideration  for  the  comfort 
of  others.  At  all  events,  it  is  clearly 
enough  politeness  in  Newman  that 
gives  him  his  great  air  of  superiority 
in  the  presence  of  the  old  French 
noblesse,  and  that  makes  his  kind 
simplicity  a  force  in  contrast  with 
their  complexity  of  manner.  It  is  the 
absence  of  politeness  in  the  complex 
Bellegarde  manner  that  constitutes 
its  weakness  and  converts  it  by  in 
sidious  shades  into  absurdity.  It  is 
the  politeness  of  Madame  de  Cintre 
that  makes  her  a  star  of  charm  in  the 
cold  constellation  of  her  relatives, 
before  we  are  aware  of  her  superior 
moral  virtue.  It  is  the  grace  of  polite 
ness  in  her  younger  brother  Valentin 
that  makes  him  the  true  head  of  the 
house  of  Bellegarde.  At  the  end  of 


72  DentE  3ames 

the  story,  which  takes,  its  many  read 
ers  will  remember,  a  melodramatic  turn 
involving  criminal  acts  and  startling 
disclosures,  the  politeness  by  which 
Newman  expresses  his  rich  spirit  of 
benignity  blossoms  into  a  state  of  feel 
ing  beside  which  the  cheaper  states 
so  frequently  encountered  both  in 
fiction  and  in  life,  seem  as  tawdry  as 
a  milliner's  display  after  the  bloom 
ing  summer  hedges.  The  unfortunate 
American,  duped  by  his  French  antag 
onists,  but  in  possession  of  their  hideous 
secret  for  revelation  or  not  as  he  may 
choose,  has  been  gazing  at  the  gray 
walls  of  the  convent  to  which  Madame 
de  Cintre  had  been  driven.  Turning 
away,  he  walked  down  to  the  edge  of 
the  Seine  and  saw  above  him  the  soft 
vast  towers  of  Notre  Dame : 

He  crossed  one  of  the  bridges  and  stood 


Bmerfcan  Cbaracter  73 

a  moment  in  the  empty  place  before  the 
great  cathedral ;  then  he  went  in  beneath  the 
grossly  imaged  portals.  He  wandered  some 
distance  up  the  nave  and  sat  down  in  the 
splendid  dimness.  He  sat  a  long  time;  he 
heard  far-away  bells  chiming  off  at  long 
intervals,  to  the  rest  of  the  world.  He  was 
very  tired.  This  was  the  best  place  he  could 
be  in.  He  said  no  prayers;  he  had  no 
prayers  to  say.  He  had  nothing  to  be 
thankful  for,  and  he  had  nothing  to  ask; 
nothing  to  ask,  because  now  he  must  take 
care  of  himself.  But  a  great  cathedral  offers 
a  very  various  hospitality,  and  Newman  sat 
in  his  place,  because  while  he  was  there  he 
was  out  of  the  world.  The  most  unpleasant 
thing  that  had  ever  happened  to  him  had 
reached  its  formal  conclusion,  as  it  were;  he 
could  close  the  book  and  put  it  away.  He 
leaned  his  head  for  a  long  time  on  the  chair 
in  front  of  him;  when  he  took  it  up  he  felt 
that  he  was  himself  again.  vSomewhere  in 
his  mind  a  tight  knot  seemed  to  have  loosened. 
He  thought  of  the  Bellegardes;  he  had  al 
most  forgotten  them.  He  remembered  them 
as  people  he  had  meant  to  do  something  to. 
He  gave  a  groan  as  he  remembered  what  he 
had  meant  to  do;  the  bottom  suddenly  had 


74  1benr£  James 

fallen  out  of  his  revenge.  Whether  it  was 
Christian  charity  or  unregenerate  good  nature 
— what  it  was  in  the  background  of  his  soul 
— I  don't  pretend  to  say;  but  Newman's  last 
thought  was  that  of  course  he  would  let  the 
Bellegardes  go.  If  he  had  spoken  it  aloud 
he  would  have  said  that  he  didn't  want  to 
hurt  them.  He  was  ashamed  of  having 
wanted  to  hurt  them.  They  had  hurt  him 
but  such  things  were  really  not  his  game. 
At  last  he  got  up  and  came  out  of  the  dark 
ening  church;  not  with  the  elastic  step  of 
a  man  who  has  won  a  victory  or  taken  a 
resolve,  but  strolling  soberly,  like  a  good- 
natured  man  who  is  still  a  little  ashamed. 

This  tone  of  mind,  which  perhaps  we 
can  best  define  as  spiritual  courtesy  in 
opposition  to  the  false  *  *  politesse  sterile 
et  rampante,"  attaching  only  to  the 
surface  of  behaviour,  is  one  upon 
which  Mr.  James  has  continued  to  bend 
his  discerning  gaze.  It  appears  again 
and  again  in  such  diverse  individuals 
as  Ralph  Touchett,  Francie  Dosson, 


Hmerican  Cbaracter  75 

Maisie  Farange,  Mr.  Longdon,  Verena 
Tarrant,  Milly  Theale,  Strether,  Adam 
Verver,  and  the  exquisite  Maggie. 
Although  in  Newman  and  in  the 
wonderful  late  evolution  of  Newman, 
Adam  Verver,  it  seems  inseparably 
connected  with  the  nationality  of  its 
possessor,  it  makes  its  home  as  well 
with  English  Maisie,  with  Henry  Chil- 
ver  in  The  Great  Condition,  and  with 
other  characters  in  the  short  stories 
that  have  kept  pace  with  the  nov 
els  in  number,  variety  and  quality. 
,  Nevertheless  it  is  true  that  in  nearly 
/  all  the  important  American  characters 
the  inner  delicacy  prompting  con 
siderate  relations  with  others,  the 
essential  kindness  seeking  happiness 
in  the  well-being  of  others,  are  so  con- 

:  spicuous  as  to  press  upon  the  reader 

• 

the  conviction  that  by  the  writer  they 


76  1foenr£  James 

|l  are  regarded  as  peculiarly  character- 
\  istic  of  his  nation.  The  impression 
they  create  is  the  stronger  that  Mr. 
James  nowhere  shirks  his  duty  as  an 
observer  or  fails  to  note  the  symbols 
of  difference  in  taste  and  training 
which  make  against  the  perfection  of 
manner  in  his  national  family,  as  com 
pared  with  the  European  tradition. 
The  artistic  detachment  that  has  en 
abled  him  to  record  with  precision  and 
without  prejudice  the  manners  of  many 
countries,  has  yet  left  him  the  ancient 
right  of  the  artist  to  add  himself  to 
-I  nature  in  the  account  of  his  observa 
tions,  and  there  is  no  injustice  to  his 
art  in  reflecting  that  he  analyses  his 
American  characters  with  a  sympathy 
which  lends  an  ineffable  sweetness  and 
warmth  to  their  portraiture.  Yet  in 
recognising  the  elevation  of  his  concep- 


Hmerican  Cbaracter  77 

tions  of  his  countrymen  and  country 
women  it  is  easy  also  to  perceive  that 
they  are  not  wholly  isolated  in  their 
essential  character.  They  are  the 
verdant  branch  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 
stock,  fed  by  the  same  sap  that  courses 
through  the  stout  British  trunk,  if 
somewhat  lighter  and  gayer  and  freer 
in  movement,  and  brighter  and  thinner 
in  colour,  and  slighter  in  form.  With 
what  Mr.  James  somewhere  defines  asj 
"the  faintly  acrid  perfume  of  the  New! 
England  temperament,"  with  sensitive 
imaginations,  fanciful  humour,  con 
scientious  exclusions  and  renunciations, 
they  nevertheless  are  not  alien  to  the 
English  as  they  are  alien  to  the  French 
and  to  the  Italians.  The  same  taste 
in  morality  exists  for  both.  When  in  ' 
The  Golden  Bowl  the  Roman  Prince 
asks  Maggie  Verver,  who  is  betrothed 


78 


to  him,  if  she  believes  that  he  is  not 
a  hypocrite,  if  she  recognises  that  he 
does  n't  lie  or  dissemble  or  deceive,  we 
can  imagine  the  colour  rising  in  an 
English  face  as  promptly  as  in  hers. 
The  Prince  notes,  in  fact,  that  the  dis 
ability  seriously  to  discuss  questions 
of  veracity  and  loyalty  or  the  lack  of 
them  is  "the  English,  the  American 
sign,"  that  duplicity,  like  "love"  has 
to  be  joked  about.  The  whole  matter 
is  put  concisely  in  the  following  frag 
ment  of  discourse  taken  from  a  very 
enlightening  little  paper  called  An 
Animated  Conversation.  Several  per 
sons,  some  of  them  American,  the  rest 
English,  are  exchanging  ideas  on  in 
ternational  differences.  The  interna 
tional  differences,  between  England 
and  America,  Darcy,  an  American, 
characterises  as  "rubbish,"  and  he 


Smertcan  Gbaracter  79 

holds  that  if  his  countrymen  are  not  all 
"formed,"  at  least  they  are  forming, 
and  on  a  scale  of  opportunity  like 
nothing  else  in  the  world : 

the  opportunity  for  two  great  peoples  to  ac 
cept,  or  rather  to  cultivate  with  talent,  a 
common  destiny,  to  tackle  the  world  to 
gether,  to  unite  in  the  arts  of  peace — by 
which  I  mean,  of  course,  in  the  arts  of  life. 
It  will  make  life  larger  and  the  arts  finer  for 
each  of  them.  It  will  be  an  immense  and 
complicated  problem  of  course — to  see  it 
through;  but  that 's  why  I  speak  of  it  as  an 
object  of  envy  to  other  nations,  in  its  dis 
cipline,  its  suggestiveness,  the  initiation,  the 
revelation  it  will  lead  to.  Their  problems  in 
comparison  strike  me  as  small  and  vulgar. 
It  's  not  true  that  there  is  nothing  new  under 
the  sun;  the  donnee  of  the  drama  that  Eng 
land  and  America  may  act  out  together 
is  absolutely  new.  Essentially  new  is  the 
position  in  which  they  stand  toward  each 
other.  It  rests  with  all  of  us  to  make  it 
newer  still. 

This  was  written  more  than  fifteen 


8o  Ifoenrp  James 

years  ago  and  twelve  years  after  the 
publication  of  The  American.  The 
swiftly  moving  forces  of  the  West 
already  had  been  hard  at  work  on 
American  civilisation,  and  already  the 
illusions  and  ignorances  of  a  Christo 
pher  Newman  concerning  European 
customs  and  thought  had  become  of 
less  probable  occurrence,  had  been,  at 
all  events,  replaced  by  a  different  set 
of  illusions  and  ignorances.  Not  alto 
gether,  therefore,  because  of  their  in 
trinsic  worth,  but  to  a  large  degree 
because  they  crystallise  for  us  the 
evanescent  forms  of  a  social  state  that 
flowered  and  withered  in  a  night,  must 
we  prize  the  series  of  novels  executed 
by  Mr.  James  before  the  last  quarter 
of  the  mighty  century  just  closed. 

His  heroines  of  that  comparatively 
fresh  adventurous  time  have  a  seri- 


Hmerican  Cbaracter  81 

ous,  simple  intensity  that  makes  them 
beguiling  figures  in  the  gravely  ordered 
setting  of  their  lives.  Most  of  them 
are  responsive  to  new  impressions,  ner 
vously  alive  to  the  interests  of  the 
world  outside  their  shuttered  windows. 
Gertrude  Wentworth  in  The  Europeans 
meets  the  impact  of  foreign  life  upon 
her  susceptible  temperament  with  sud 
den  tears  of  joy.  Isabel  Archer,  in 
The  Portrait  of  A  Lady,  is  thrilled  with 
exquisite  excitements  when  she  stands 
for  the  first  time  on  English  ground. 
They  all  have  firm,  clear  minds  and 
fine  capacities  for  pure  joys  and  in 
telligent  recreations.  They  have,  too, 
whatever  their  age  may  be,  the  con 
fiding,  idealising  tendency  of  the  very 
young,  and  a  gay  perversity,  that 
risks  nothing  so  easily  as  misunder 
standing.  The  immortal  Daisy  Miller 


82  f>enr£  James 

is  the  embodiment  of  the  latter  peril 
ous  attribute  and  owes  her  interna 
tional  fame,  no  doubt,  chiefly  to  the 
readiness  with  which  she  sacrificed  to 
the  idol  of  her  American  independence. 
Catherine  Sloper,  in  Washington  Square, 
is  the  one  unperceptive  intelligence  of 
the  group,  and  her  heaviness  of  mind 
is  adroitly  symbolised  by  her  author 
in  the  fact  that  she  wears  satins  at  the 
age  of  muslins.  But  she,  with  the  rest, 
savours  of  a  moral  charm  composed  of 
two  admirable  qualities,  delicacy  and 
loyalty:  these  make  the  little  clear 
flame  that  burns  so  steadily  beneath 
all  the  various  exteriors.  And  as  if 
from  the  action  of  this  hidden  puri 
fying  element,  the  dross  of  artificial 
conventions  disappears.  The  moral 
nature  moves  with  a  fine  freedom  of 
limb,  and  the  unsophisticated  con- 


Hmertcan  Cbaracter  83 

science  takes  unexpected  gracious  at 
titudes. 

No  writer  has  been  more  haunted  by 
the  compatibility  of  gentleness  with 
the  firmer  qualities  of  the  spirit.  In 
Verena  Tarrant  of  The  Bostonians,  it 
constitutes  the  invincible  charm  of  an 
otherwise  undistinguished  character — 
unless  it  be  distinguished  to  have  the 
gift  of  eloquent,  excessive,  persuasive 
speech.  The  lack  of  gentleness  in  her 
militant  companion,  Olive  Chancellor, 
is  the  undoing  of  an  otherwise  estimable 
lady;  the  presence  of  it  again  in  the 
noble  and  affecting  portrait  of  Miss 
Birdseye  lends  to  her  aged  aspect  an 
interest  greater  than  any  inspired  by 
her  dim,  disordered  activity  in  the 
pursuit  of  human  enfranchisement. 
Her  gentleness  pervades  her  earn 
est,  industrious  career,  and  over  the 


84  fbenrs  3ames 

scene  of  her  quiet  death  casts  a  perfect 
grace : 

Miss  Birdseye's  voice  was  very  low,  like 
that  of  a  person  breathing  with  difficulty; 
but  it  had  no  painful  or  querulous  note — it 
expressed  only  the  cheerful  weariness  which 
had  marked  all  this  last  period  of  her  life,  and 
which  seemed  to  make  it  now  as  blissful  as  it 
was  suitable  that  she  should  pass  away.  Her 
head  was  thrown  back  against  the  top  of  the 
chair,  the  ribbon  which  confined  her  ancient 
hat  hung  loose,  and  the  late  afternoon -light 
covered  her  octogenarian  face  and  gave  it  a 
kind  of  fairness,  a  double  placidity.  There 
was,  to  Ransom,  something  almost  august  in 
the  trustful  renunciation  of  her  countenance ; 
something  in  it  seemed  to  say  that  she  had 
been  ready  long  before,  but  as  the  time  was 
not  ripe  she  had  waited,  with  her  usual  faith 
that  all  was  for  the  best;  only,  at  present, 
since  the  right  conditions  met,  she  could  n't 
help  feeling  that  it  was  quite  a  luxury,  the 
greatest  she  had  ever  tasted. 

This  sympathetic  description  is  in 
the  style  of  interested  personal  com- 


amertcan  Gbaracter  85 

ment,  and  so  is  the  later  reference  to 
her  burial-place : 

Her  mortal  remains  were  to  be  committed 
to  their  rest  in  the  little  cemetery  at  Mar- 
mion,  in  sight  of  the  pretty  sea-view  she 
loved  to  gaze  at,  among  old  mossy  head 
stones  of  mariners  and  fisher-folk.  She  had 
seen  the  place  when  she  first  came  down, 
when  she  was  able  to  drive  out  a  little,  and 
she  had  said  she  thought  it  must  be  pleasant 
to  lie  there.  It  was  not  an  injunction,  a 
definite  request;  it  had  not  occurred  to  Miss 
Birdseye,  at  the  end  of  her  days,  to  take  an 
exacting  line  or  to  make,  for  the  first  time  in 
eighty  years,  a  personal  claim.  But  Olive 
Chancellor  and  Verena  had  put  their  con 
struction  on  her  appreciation  of  the  quietest 
corner  of  the  striving,  suffering  world  so 
weary  a  pilgrim  of  philanthropy  had  ever 
beheld. 

In  the  personal  manner,  also,  are  the 
descriptions  of  Francie  Dosson,  in  The 
Reverberator,  which  are  little  more 
than  suggestive  musings  on  the  quality 


86  Ibenrs  James 

directly    displayed    by    that    lovable 
young  American  in  act  and  speech: 

She  thought  Delia  whipped  her  up  too 
much,  but  there  was  that  in  her  which 
would  have  prevented  her  from  ever  running 
away.  She  could  smile  and  smile  for  an 
hour  without  irritation,  making  even  pacific 
answers,  though  all  the  while  her  com 
panion's  grossness  hurt  something  delicate 
that  was  in  her. 

Francie  did  not  in  the  least  dislike  Mr. 
Flack.  Interested  as  I  am  in  presenting  her 
favourably  to  the  reader,  I  am  yet  obliged 
as  a  veracious  historian  to  admit  that  he 
seemed  to  her  decidedly  a  brilliant  being. 
In  many  a  girl  the  sort  of  appreciation  she 
had  of  him  might  easily  have  been  converted 
by  peremptory  treatment  from  outside  into 
something  more  exalted.  I  do  not  mis 
represent  the  perversity  of  women  in  saying 
that  our  young  lady  might  at  this  moment 
have  replied  to  her  sister  with,  "No,  I  was 
not  in  love  with  him,  but  somehow  since  you 
are  so  very  prohibitive  I  foresee  that  I  shall 
be  if  he  asks  me."  It  is  doubtless  difficult 
to  say  more  for  Francie 's  simplicity  of  char- 


Hmerican  Character  87 

acter  than  that  she  felt  no  need  of  encour 
aging  Mr.  Flack  in  order  to  prove  to  herself 
that  she  was  not  bullied.  She  did  n't  care 
whether  she  were  bullied  or  not;  and  she 
was  perfectly  capable  of  letting  her  sister 
believe  that  she  had  carried  mildness  to  the 
point  of  giving  up  a  man  she  had  a  secret 
sentiment  for  in  order  to  oblige  that  large- 
brained  young  lady.  She  was  not  clear 
herself  as  to  whether  it  might  not  be  so;  her 
pride,  what  she  had  of  it,  lay  in  an  undis 
tributed,  inert  form  quite  at  the  bottom  of 
her  heart,  and  she  had  never  yet  invented 
any  consoling  theory  to  cover  her  want  of  a 
high  spirit. 

It  will  hardly  be  denied  by  any 
attentive  reader  of  fiction,  that  a 
peculiar  talent  is  required  to  endow 
heroines  with  this  mingled cmajjty 

( 1 1  n— L-^Z— ^. „«,  .^..X .'.-  .  "--•: :    ."i»r*A. 

of  simplicity  *ffl^  Vi  n  H  n  PQQ  without 
suggesting  a  state  of  colourless  in 
sipidity,  an  absence  of  " brain-stuff," 
fatal  to  sustained  interest.  The  fact 
that  these  softly  innocent  American 


88  1benr$  James 

heroines,  and  even  the  keenly  innocent 
American  heroes,  wear  their  tempera 
ment  with  so  distinguished  an  air 
proves,  certainly,  the  presence  in  their 
author  of  the  peculiar  talent,  but  does 
.  it  not  also  prove  a  certain  distin 
guished  charm  in  the  American  char 
acter  which  has  waited — it  had  not, 
to  be  sure,  an  excessive  period  to  wait 
— for  the  right  interpreter,  the  inter 
preter  whose  condition  of  rightness 
has  been  determined  not  merely  by 
his  natural  talent,  but  by  his  inter 
national  experience,  his  possession  of 
a  background  for  his  figures,  and  a 
standard  of  comparison? 

Isabel  Archer  is  the  most  instructed 
of  his  young  Americans,  the  most 
given  to  introspection  and  analysis, 
the  least  humble  in  the  arms  of  fortune, 
yet  even  her  brilliant  intelligent  per- 


Hmertcan  Cbaracter  89 

sonality  breathes  of  a  purity  that  is 
deeper  than  the  mere  natural  attribute 
of  maidenhood,  a  purity  that  lies  at  the 
core  of  character,  and  is  inexpugnable 
by  experience,  however  extended  into 
dangerous  fields.  The  connotation  of 
her  characteristics  suggests  the  com 
ment  long  after  made  by  Mr.  James 
upon  his  renewed  impression  of  the 
wide  New  Hampshire  landscape,  that 
it  insists  on  referring  itself  to  the 
idyllic  type: 

as  if  the  higher  finish,  even  at  the  hand  of 
nature,  were  in  some  sort  a  perversion,  and 
hillsides  and  rocky  eminences  and  wild  or 
chards,  in  short,  any  common  sequestered 
spot,  could  strike  one  as  the  more  exquisitely 
and  ideally  Sicilian,  Theocritan,  poetic,  ro 
mantic,  academic  from  their  not  bearing  the 
burden  of  too  much  history. 

This    perhaps    is    the     "note"    of 
American  character,    as   of  American 


90  t>enr£  James 

landscape,  from  the  point  of  view  of 
a  detached  but  not  denationalised  ob 
server.  Certainly  in  the  following 
passage,  illustrating  Isabel's  habit  of 
mind  and  absorbing  interest  in  the 
laws  of  her  nature,  there  is  a  flavour 
of  New  World,  of  Old  World  unsophis- 
tication : 

She  had  an  unquenchable  desire  to  think 
well  of  herself.  She  had  a  theory  that  it 
was  only  on  this  condition  that  life  was 
worth  living;  that  one  should  be  one  of  the 
best,  should  be  conscious  of  a  fine  organisa 
tion  (she  could  not  help  knowing  her  organ 
isation  was  fine),  should  move  in  a  realm  of 
light,  of  natural  wisdom,  of  happy  impulse, 
of  inspiration  gracefully  chronic.  It  was 
almost  as  unnecessary  to  cultivate  doubt  of 
oneself  as  to  cultivate  doubt  of  one's  best 
friend;  one  should  try  to  be  one's  own  best 
friend,  and  to  give  oneself,  in  this  manner, 
distinguished  company.  The  girl  had  a  cer 
tain  nobleness  of  imagination  which  rendered 
her  a  good  many  services  and  played  her  a 
great  many  tricks.  She  spent  half  her  time 


Hmertcan  Cbaracter  91 

in  thinking  of  beauty,  and  bravery,  and 
magnanimity;  she  had  a  fixed  determination 
to  regard  the  world  as  a  place  of  brightness, 
of  free  expansion,  of  irresistible  action;  she 
thought  it  would  be  detestable  to  be  afraid 
or  ashamed.  She  had  an  infinite  hope  that 
she  should  never  do  anything  wrong.  She 
had  resented  so  strongly,  after  discovering 
them,  her  mere  errors  of  feeling  (the  dis 
covery  always  made  her  tremble,  as  if  she 
had  escaped  from  a  trap  which  might  have 
caught  her  and  smothered  her),  that  the 
chance  of  inflicting  a  sensible  injury  upon 
another  person,  presented  only  as  a  con 
tingency,  caused  her  at  moments  to  hold  her 
breath.  That  always  seemed  the  worst 
thing  that  could  happen  to  one.  On  the 
whole,  reflectively,  she  was  in  no  uncer 
tainty  about  the  things  that  were  wrong. 
She  had  no  taste  for  thinking  of  them,  but 
whenever  she  looked  at  them  fixedly  she 
recognised  them.  It  was  wrong  to  be  mean, 
to  be  jealous,  to  be  false,  to  be  cruel;  she 
had  seen  very  little  of  the  evil  of  the  world, 
but  she  had  seen  women  who  lied  and  who 
tried  to  hurt  each  other.  Seeing  such 
things  had  quickened  her  high  spirit;  it 
seemed  right  to  scorn  them. 


92  Ifoenrp  James 

If  this  special  psychological  charm  is 
notable  and  typical  in  the  early  books 
it  is  not  less  so  in  the  late  ones, — The 
Ambassadors  and  The  Golden  Bowl. 
Mamie  Pocock  has  it  in  spite  of  her 
largeness,  her  chattiness,  her  poly 
syllables,  and  the  complexities  of  her 
hair.  Maggie  Verver  has  it  to  a  far 
more  intense  degree;  in  her,  it  is  the 
finest  distillation  of  delicacy,  idyllic, 
if  you  will,  and  Sicilian,  but,  above  all, 
American. 

"There  are  things,  my  dear,"  Mrs.  Assing- 
ham  explains  to  her  husband,  " — haven't 
you  felt  it  yourself,  coarse  as  you  are? — that 
no  one  could  tell  Maggie.  There  are  things 
that,  upon  my  word,  I  should  n't  care  to 
attempt  to  tell  her  now." 

The  Colonel  smoked  on  it.  "She  'd  be  so 
scandalised?" 

"She'd  be  so  frightened.  She'd  be,  in 
her  strange  little  way,  so  hurt.  She  was  n't 
born  to  know  evil.  She  must  never  know  it." 


Hmerican  Cbaracter  93 

Different  as  the  "style"  of  Maggie's 
portraiture  is  from  that  of  Francie, 
Gertrude,  and  Isabel,  the  likeness 
common  to  them  all  is  not  to  be  mis 
taken,  and  marks  for  their  author's 
position  as  a  novelist  the  creation  of  a 
special  type,  and  a  type,  moreover, 
that  has  appeared  before  in  fiction 
only  in  scattered  examples.  It  has 
had  no  place  as  the  central  conception 
of  a  body  of  literature;  for  the  illus 
tration  of  which  psychologic  detail  is 
gathered,  but  which  is  never  sub 
ordinated  or  contradicted.  It  has 
never  before  been  used 'as  the  moral 
value  against  wrhich  all  the  minor 
forms  of  vice  show  as  motes  in  a  clear 
light,  and  all  the  greater  forms  as 
dusky  shadow  from  which  such  light 
has  been  withdrawn. 

That   it   is   the   American   type   is 


94  Ibenrs  James 

hardly  to  be  made  a  matter  of  pride 
with  us,  is  much  more  to  be  made  a 
matter  of  shame  in  the  degree  to 
which  we  manage  to  depart  from  it; 
but  it  is  in  the  nature  of  a  positive  joy 
to  reflect  in  its  presence  on  the  amount 
of  intellectual  and  spiritual  experience 
possible  to  so  finely  absorbent  a 
texture.  Almost  the  last  word  con 
cerning  it  is  said  in  answer  to  the 
perceptive  Prince  of  The  Golden  Bowl: 

"You  Americans  are  almost  incredibly 
romantic,"  he  exclaims. 

"Of  course  we  are.  That  is  just  what 
makes  everything  so  nice  for  us." 

"Everything?" 

"Well,  everything  that  's  nice  at  all.  The 
world,  the  beautiful  world — or  everything 
in  it  that  is  beautiful.  I  mean  we  see  so 
much." 


II 

A  NOVELIST  with  this  strong  sense  of 
poetic  element  in  human  nature, 
and  with  a  tendency  to  let  his  imagina 
tion  wander  into  the  region  of  mystic 
ism  and  to  interrogate  the  soul  rather 
than  the  mind,  needs  a  strong  counter 
balance  of  interest  in  the  exterior 
world  to  keep  his  feet  firmly  on  the 
earth,  and  to  provide  for  his  characters 
a  credible,  tangible  environment. 

In  the  case  of  Mr.  James,  this  interest 
manifests  itself  as  a  notable,  a  truly 
remarkable,  feeling  for  houses  and 
their  furnishings  and  surroundings, 
especially  where  they  have  the  ingra 
tiating  touch  of  age,  and  an  intimate 
association  with  the  lives  of  their 

95 


96  Ibenrs  5ames 

V  owners.  He  feels  the  genius  of  places, 
the  inner  life  behind  the  outer  aspect  of 
ponderable  things,  and  so  closely  ad 
justs  his  vision  to  fine  discriminations 
in  these  that  the  places  he  knows 
and  likes  the  best  are  a  part  of  his 
drama,  a  part  of  the  expression  of  his 
characters,  and  even,  by  a  stretch  of 
imagination,  are  in  themselves  char 
acters,  of  an  individuality  not  easily 
to  be  forgotten.  In  the  earlier  work 
they  live  chiefly,  however,  as  a  means 
of  expression.  The  home  of  the  Went- 
worths,  for  example,  in  The  Europeans, 
is  not  only  an  admirable  type  of  the 
dwellings  of  well-to-do  Americans  of 
the  time  and  locality  indicated,  but  in 
its  clean,  bare  formality  is  precisely 
the  harmonious  setting  for  their  seri 
ous,  open  lives : 

The  doors  and  windows  of  the  large  square 


TTbe  (Senius  of  place  97 

house  were  all  wide  open,  to  admit  the 
purifying  sunshine,  which  lay  in  generous 
patches  upon  the  floor  of  a  wide,  high,  covered 
piazza  adjusted  to  two  sides  of  the  mansion 
— a  piazza  on  which  several  straw-bottomed 
rocking-chairs  and  half  a  dozen  of  those 
small  cylindrical  stools  in  green  and  blue 
porcelain,  which  suggest  an  affiliation  be 
tween  the  residents  and  the  Eastern  trade, 
were  symmetrically  disposed.  It  was  an 
ancient  house — ancient  in  the  sense  of  be 
ing  eighty  years  old;  it  was  built  of  wood, 
painted  a  clear,  faded  grey,  and  adorned 
along  the  front  at  intervals,  with  flat  wooden 
pilasters,  painted  white.  These  pilasters  ap 
peared  to  support  a  kind  of  classic  pediment, 
which  was  decorated  in  the  middle  by  a  large 
triple  window  in  a  boldly  carved  frame,  and 
in  each  of  its  smaller  angles  by  a  glazed 
circular  aperture.  A  large  white  door,  fur 
nished  with  a  highly  polished  brass  knocker, 
presented  itself  to  the  rural-looking  road, 
with  which  it  was  connected  by  a  spacious 
pathway,  paved  with  worn  and  cracked 
but  very  clean  bricks.  Behind  it  there  were 
meadows  and  orchards,  a  barn  and  a  pond; 
and  facing  it,  a  short  distance  along  the  road, 
on  the  opposite  side,  stood  a  smaller  house, 


98  Ibenrs  James 


painted  white,  with  external  shutters  painted 
green,  a  little  garden  on  one  hand  and  an 
orchard  on  the  other.  All  this  was  shining 
in  the  morning  air,  through  which  the  sim 
ple  details  of  the  picture  addressed  them 
selves  to  the  eye  as  distinctly  as  a  "sum"  in 
addition. 


And  in  The  Bostonians,  the  home  of 
Olive  Chancellor,  on  Charles  Street, 
successfully  completes  the  image  of 
that  young  woman's  exacting  tempera 
ment  as  Basil  Ransom  is  first  intro 
duced  to  it. 


The  general  character  of  the  place  struck 
him  as  Bostonian;  this  was,  in  fact,  very 
much  what  he  had  supposed  Boston  to 
be.  He  had  always  heard  Boston  was  a 
city  of  culture,  and  now  there  was  culture 
in  Miss  Chancellor's  tables  and  sofas,  in 
the  books  that  were  everywhere,  on  little 
shelves  like  brackets  (as  if  a  book  were  a 
statuette),  in  the  photographs  and  water- 
colours  that  covered  the  walls,  in  the  cur- 


(Benius  of  place  99 


tains   that   were  festooned   rather  stiffly   in 
the  doorways. 

Not  less  representative,  in  the  same 
book,  are  the  long,  bald  rooms,  in  which 
Verena  Tarrant's  audience  is  gathered, 
and  the  hot  little  dining-room  of  the 
Tarrant  homestead,  with  its  smell  of 
kerosene,  its  coloured  table-cloth,  and 
creaking,  unstable  chairs. 

But  it  is  not  until  we  get  away 
from  America,  and  into  England,  Italy, 
and  France  with  Mr.  James,  that 
we  realise  the  pervasive  influence  of 
beauty  and  romance  in  homes,  gardens, 
churches,  and  little  inns;  of  the  mellow 
bloom  imparted  by  gathered  years  to 
the  common  substances  of  brick  and 
stone  and  wood.  For  the  English 
scene,  steeped  in  its  recognitions  of  an 
immemorial  history,  his  feeling  deepens 
to  inalienable  affection.  His  early 


3ames 


impression  is  recorded  in  his  early 
story  so  felicitously  named  The  Pas 
sionate  Pilgrim: 

Just  the  scene  around  me  was  the  England 
of  my  visions.  Over  against  us,  amid  the 
deep-hued  bloom  of  its  ordered  gardens,  the 
dark  red  palace,  with  its  formal  copings  and 
its  vacant  windows,  seemed  to  tell  of  a  proud 
and  splendid  past;  the  little  village  nestling 
between  park  and  palace,  around  a  patch  of 
turfy  common,  with  its  tavern  of  gentility, 
its  ivy-towered  church,  its  parsonage,  re 
tained  to  my  modernised  fancy  the  lurking 
semblance  of  a  feudal  hamlet.  It  was  in 
this  dark  composite  light  that  I  had  read  all 
English  prose  ;  it  was  this  mild,  moist  air  that 
had  blown  from  the  verses  of  English  poets  ; 
beneath  these  broad  acres  of  rain-deepened 
greenness  a  thousand  honoured  dead  lay 
buried. 

He  has  kept  clear  of  confusions  and 
blunted  outlines.  His  sentiment  for 
places  has  never  degenerated  into  that 
irritating  sentimentality  which  sees  all 


Ube  Oenius  of  place          101 

beauty  under  one  obliterating  light  of 
egoistic  fancy.  The  light  of  his  Italy 
is  never  the  light  of  his  England;  the 
light  of  his  England  is  as  far^as  pos 
sible  removed  from  that  of  his  America. 
His  Paris  haze  is  possessed  of  an 
entirely  different  personality  from  his 
London  fog;  he  respects  the  facial 
idiosyncrasies  of  an  English  country- 
house  or  an  Alpine  hostelry  with  as 
much  honourable  exactitude  as  the 
great  portrait  painters  have  employed 
in  the  service  of  their  sitters.  It  is 
this  feeling  for  shades  of  truth  in  its 
every  aesthetic  form  that  makes  him  a 
writer  so  to  be  depended  upon  by  the 
untra veiled.  If  from  his  writings  they 
have  not  the  place  itself  they  at  least 
have  an  impression  of  it  that  has  not 
been  falsified  in  tone  or  colour  by  any 
attempt  to  fit  it  to  fine  language  or 


102  Ibenrs  James 

1  'arrange"  it  according  to  a  personal 
recipe  of  arrangement. 

And  if  one  does  not  always  love  the 
company  he  keeps,  one  can  hardly  fail 
of  love  for  the  places  in  which  he  keeps 
it.  The  Portrait  of  a^Lady  is  the  first 
of  the  novels  to  take  us  into  the 
familiar  life  of_an  old  English  country - 
h^use.  The  description  of  Garden- 
court,  with  which  the  book  opens 
expresses  the  quality  produced  by  the 
sense  of  property,  of  ownership,  of 
vested  rights : 

It  stood  upon  a  low  hill,  above  the  river — 
the  river  being  the  Thames,  at  some  forty 
miles  from  London.  A  long  gabled  front  of 
red  brick,  with  the  complexion  of  which 
time  and  the  weather  had  played  all  sorts  of 
picturesque  tricks,  only,  however,  to  im 
prove  and  refine  it,  presented  itself  to  the 
lawn,  with  its  patches  of  ivy,  its  clustered 
chimneys,  its  windows  smothered  in  creepers. 
-The  house  had  a  name  and  a  history ;  the  old 


Ube  Genius  of  place          103 

gentleman  taking  his  tea  would  have  been 
delighted  to  tell  you  these  things:  how  it 
had  been  built  under  Edward  the  Sixth,  had 
offered  a  night's  hospitality  to  the  great 
Elizabeth  (whose  august  person  had  ex 
tended  itself  upon  a  huge,  magnificent,  and 
terribly  angular  bed  which  still  formed  the 
principal  honour  of  the  sleeping  apartments), 
had  been  a  good  deal  bruised  and  defaced  in 
Cromwell's  wars,  and  then,  under  the  Re 
storation,  repaired  and  much  enlarged;  and 
how,  finally,  after  having  been  remodelled 
and  disfigured  in  the  eighteenth  century,  it 
had  passed  into  the  careful  keeping  of  a 
shrewd  American  banker,  who  had  bought 
it  originally  because  (owing  to  circumstances 
too  complicated  to  set  forth)  it  was  offered 
at  a  great  bargain;  bought  it  with  much 
grumbling  at  its  ugliness,  its  antiquity,  its 
incommodity,  and  who  now,  at  the  end  of 
twenty  years,  had  become  conscious  of  a 
real  aesthetic  passion  for  it,  so  that  he  knew 
all  its  points,  and  would  tell  you  just  where 
to  stand  to  see  them  in  combination,  and 
just  the  hour  when  the  shadows  of  its  various 
protuberances — which  fell  so  softly  upon  the 
warm,  weary  brickwork — were  of  the  right 
measure. 


104  t>enr£  -James 

In  the  later  novels  these  careful 
enumerations  give  way  to  the  freer 
movement  of  a  more  distinguished 
style;  but  the  sensitiveness  to  im 
pressions  of  ordered  humanised  habi 
tations,  made  "Beautiful  by  the  hand 
of  man,  persists;  especially  the  classic 
element  in  places,  the  quality  of 
measure  and  restraint,  finds  more  and 
more  fervent  appreciation.  In  the 
earlier  though  not  in  the  earliest  books 
the  romantic  and  picturesque  side  of 
life  receives  a  certain  amount  of  notice. 
In  the  London  of  The  Princess 
Casamassima  are  even  nooks  and 
byways  that  add  to  the  suggestion  in 
that  book  of  a  momentary  inclination 
toward  the  art  of  Dickens,  on  the  part 
of  the  author,  a  queer  plunge  into  the 
region  of  the  grotesque.  The  miser 
able  room  in  which  the  crippled  sister 


Ube  (Benius  ot  place          105 

of  Paul  Muniment  holds  her  fantastic 
court,  touched  with  its  quaint  charm 
compounded  of  pitiful  gay  suggestions ; 
the  pink  dressing-gown  so  becoming 
to  the  cripple's  complexion;  the  multi 
tude  of  enlivening  prints  on  the  walls ; 
the  gaudy  variegated  counterpane; 
then,  too,  the  dark  prison  to  which 
Hyacinth  Robinson  is  carried  by  his 
foster-mother  for  his  final  ignorant, 
haunting  visit  to  his  real  mother, 
hideously  immured  there;  the  little 
sordid  house  in  Lomax  Place, — all 
these  show  something  of  the  salient 
quality,  the  heightened  colour,  the 
touch  of  strangeness  to  be  found  in 
such  luxuriance  on  the  pages  of  Little 
Dorrit  and  Great  Expectations. 

When,  however,  we  reach  the  years 
signalised  by  The  Spoils  of  Poynton, 
The  Sacred  Fount,  The  Golden  Bowl, 


106  TbentE  James 

the  years  in  which  Mr.  James  defines 
himself  in  his  work  as  "a  man  habit 
ually  ridden  by  the  twin  demons  of 
imagination  and  observation"  and 
"  never  enough  for  his  own  peace  out  of 
anything,"  we  find  a  change  in  the 
character  of  the  scenes  presented,  a 
hint  that  the  tranquillising  element  of 
order  in  beauty  has  become  for  him 
too  valuable  a  property  to  be  dispensed 
with  under  whatever  pressing  urgency 
of  the  exceptional  and  curious.  Or 
perhaps  it  would  be  a  truer  statement 
to  say  that  his  interpretation  of  the 
"grand  manner,"  in  places  as  in 
character  offers  a  more  positive  reve 
lation  of  the  side  of  his  mind  that 
escapes  into  the  Hellenic  spirit  for 
its  relief  from  "the  weary  weight  of 
this  unintelligible  world."  In  such  a 
description  as  that  of  Newmarch  in 


Zlbe  Genius  of  place          107 

The  Sacred  Fount,  the  tortured  real 
is  corrected  by  the  calm  ideal,  and 
abstract  synthetised  beauty  hangs  like 
a  brooding  angel  over  the  tangled 
human  spectacle: 

There  was  a  general  shade  in  all  the  lower 
reaches — a  fine  clear  dusk  in  garden  and 
grove,  a  thin  suffusion  of  twilight  out  of 
which  the  greater  things,  the  high  tree-tops 
and  pinnacles,  the  long  crests  of  motionless 
wood  and  chimnied  roof,  rose  into  golden  air. 
The  last  calls  of  the  birds  sounded  extra 
ordinarily  loud;  they  were  like  the  timed 
serious  splashes  in  wide,  still,  water,  of  divers 
not  expecting  to  rise  again.  I  scarce  know 
what  odd  consciousness  I  had  of  roaming  at 
close  of  day  in  the  grounds  of  some  castle  of 
enchantment.  My  few  steps  brought  me  to 
a  spot  where  another  perspective  crossed 
our  own,  so  that  they  made  together  a  ver 
durous  circle  with  an  evening  sky  above  and 
great  lengthening,  arching  recesses  in  which 
the  twilight  thickened.  Oh,  it  was  quite 
sufficiently  a  castle  of  enchantment,  and 
when  I  noticed  four  old  stone  seats,  massive 


and  mossy  and  symmetrically  placed,  I  recog 
nised  not  only  the  influence,  in  my  adventure 
of  the  grand  style,  but  the  familiar  identity 
of  this  consecrated  nook,  which  was  so  much 
the  type  of  all  the  bemused  and  remembered. 
We  were  in  a  beautiful  old  picture,  we  were 
in  a  beautiful  old  tale,  and  it  would  n't  be 
the  fault  of  Newmarch  if  some  other  carre- 
four,  not  far  off ,  did  n't  balance  with  this  one 
and  offer  the  alternative  of  niches  in  the  green 
ness,  occupied  by  weather-stained  statues  on 
florid  pedestals. 

The  consummate  felicity  of  such  a 
picture  is  the  natural  outcome  of  an 
inextinguishable  zest  in  the  writer  for 
art  in  which  the  qualities  of  grace  and 
largeness  and  discretion  are  conspicu 
ous.  Antiquity  in  these  lovely  land 
scapes  " awakes  and  sings,"  with  a 
classic  note.  Where  the  classic  note 
is  impossible,  there  is  still  the  sugges 
tion  in  all  the  pleasant  places  of  an 
aspect  unmeretricious  and  sincere,  as 


Ube  (Benius  ot  place          109 

in  the  dower  house  at  Plash,  with  its 
bright,  durable,  sociable  air;  its  air  of 
"being  meant  for  daily  life,  for  long 
periods,  for  uses  of  high  decency." 
When  one  comes  upon  an  English 
drawing-room,  it  is  invariably  the 
picture  composed  for  the  intelligent 
recognition  of  the  artist's  eye  that 
meets  one.  What,  for  example,  could 
be  more  reminiscent  of  some  rich  ex 
ample  of  Venetian  painting  than  the 
room  at  Stayes,  in  that  gem  of  the 
story-teller's  art,  The  Liar? 

Oliver  Lyon  took  but  a  few  steps  into  the 
wide  saloon;  he  stood  there  a  moment  look 
ing  at  the  bright  composition  of  the  lamp-lit 
group  of  fair  women,  the  single  figures,  the 
great  setting  of  white  and  gold,  the  panels  of 
old  damask,  in  the  centre  of  each  of  which 
was  a  single  celebrated  picture.  There  was  a 
subdued  lustre  in  the  scene,  and  an  air  as  of 
the  shining  trains  of  dresses  tumbled  over  the 
carpet. 


no  Ifoenrg  James 

The  separate  units  of  these  big, 
unified  impressions  also  are  lovingly 
defined  as  part  of  the  beautiful  world 
in  which  we  Americans  "see  so  much/' 
It  is  novel  in  our  fiction  to  find  so 
much  attention  paid  to  what  the  con 
ventional  moralist  is  bound  to  regard 
as  trivial  accessories  of  life,  and  we  of 
the  race  of  Waymarsh  are  even  inclined 
to  look  with  suspicion  on  such  a  pro 
fusion  of  aesthetic  detail. 

In  this  field  it  is  quite  conceivable 
that  Mr.  James  may  have  learned  his 
lesson  from  Balzac,  but  only  a  pro 
found  interest  in  the  agreeable  subject 
could  have  carried  him  so  far.  There 
is  hardly  a  book  —  early  or  late  —  of 
his  in  which  we  do  not  pass  through 
rooms  filled  with  precious  bibelots, 
veritable  mor$eaux  de  musee,  treasures 
of  passionate  collectors,  triumphs  of 


Ube  Genius  of  place 


texture,  surface,  colour,  and  modelling.  | 
In  The  Portrait  of  a  Lady,  we  see  the  / 
darker   side   of   the   dilettante   spirit,  .' 
which  flowers  obnoxiously  in  Gilbert  I 
Osmond's  arid  mind.     In  The  Spoils  of 
Poynton,  the  human  figures  grow  dim 
and  wavering  in  the  presence  of  fresh 
old  tapestry  and  deep  old  damasks,  old 
golds  and  brasses,  ivories  and  laces. 
In  The  Golden  Bowl,  the  collection  of 
Adam   Verver   and   his   infallible   au 
thority  lend  an  air  of  high  distinction 
to  the  drama  played  out  among  ob 
jects  of  such  inestimable  beauty  and 
value. 

All  of  which  for  the  uninitiated  is  a 
tremendous  education,  a  saturation  in 
subtle  appreciations  that  can  have  but 
one  result  —  that  of  quickening  interest 
in  all  that  man  has  beautified,  and  of 
quickening  resentment  of  the  much 


H2  Ifoenrp  3ames 

that  man  has  done  to  vulgarise  and 
debase. 

And  for  the  initiated  the  pleasure  is 
still  keener,  since  the  commerce  of 
beauty-loving  minds  is  a  revel  in 
aesthetic  rapture.  It  is  not  until  Mr. 
James  returns  to  America,  to  receive 
there,  after  his  many  years  of  absence, 
his  "Autumn  impressions,"  that  we 
realise,  and  undeniably  with  a  pang,  the 
truth  of  the  ancient  saying,  that  we 
cannot  have  our  cake  and  eat  it  too. 
He  has  fed  us  with  the  great  rich  cake 
of  art,  and  the  response  of  our  palate 
to  the  delicious  flavour  has  been  keen 
and  constant;  but  when,  as  in  the 
rural  communities  of  New  England,  he 
is  compelled  reluctantly  to  "fall  back 
on  the  land,"  frankly  confessing  to  the 
sense  of  starvation  accompanying  the 
act ;  when  we  learn  from  him  that  the 


Genius  ot  place          113 


adventure  on  this  occasion  of  finding 
in  the  wilderness  a  house  containing 
examples  of  Manet,  Degas,  Monet, 
Whistler  *  '  made  everything  else  shrivel 
and  fade,"  that  it  was  "like  the  sud 
den  trill  of  a  nightingale,  lord  of  the 
hushed  evening,"  we  are  suddenly 
and  lugubriously  aware  that  the  atten 
tion  he  has  given  to  the  cultivated 
scene  has  worked  for  many  years 
against  his  paying  any  attention  a1 
all  to  the  scene  of  which  tonic  wildnej 
is  the  essence.  Yet  few  writers  in  all 
the  world  and  all  the  ages  could  be 
trusted  so  implicitly  with  a  sunset  or  a 
dawn,  with  the  ocean  or  the  sweet, 
wild  fields.  How  little  their  poignanl 
poetry  would  suffer  from  his  dis 
criminating  touch  is  attested  by  his 
rare  references  to  the  lonelier  aspects 
of  nature.  The  perfect  expressive- 


H4  Denn?  3ame0 


ness  of  these  stirs  in  the  mind  a 
rebellious,  an  ungracious  regret  that, 
having  given  us  so  much,  he  could  not 
give  us  all.  As  an  irritating,  stimu 
lating  proof  of  what  he  could  have 
done  for  the  lovely,  careless  land  of 
ours  and  his,  he  has  scattered  over  the 
pages  published  during  his  visit  here 
jewels  of  description  for  the  decora 
tion  of  his  autumn  tour.  This  of  the 
charming  Berkshire  hill-country: 

The  grand  manner  was  in  the  winding  as 
cent,  the  rocky  defile,  the  sudden  rest  for 
wonder,  and  all  the  splendid  reverse  of  the 
medal,  the  world  belted  afresh  as  with  purple 
sown  with  pearls  —  melting,  in  other  words, 
into  violet  hills  with  vague  white  towns  on 
their  breasts. 

And  of  the  noble  Saco  valley,  where, 
for  a  moment  at  least,  curious  question 
of  human  documents  seems  to  drop 


TOe  Genius  of  place          115 

even  for  so  faithful  a  student,  who  has 
sacrificed,  since  sacrifice  of  one  kind  or 
another  was  inevitable,  the  frequency  of 
his  interrogation  of  the  soul  of  nature : 

I  went  down  into  the  valley — that  was  an 
impression  to  woo  by  stages ;  I  walked  beside 
one  of  those  great  fields  of  standing  Indian 
corn  which  make,  to  the  eye,  so  perfect  a  note 
for  the  rest  of  the  American  rural  picture, 
throwing  the  conditions  back  as  far  as  our 
past  permits,  rather  than  forward,  as  so  many 
other  things  do,  into  the  age  to  come.  The 
maker  of  these  reflections  betook  himself  at 
last,  in  any  case,  to  an  expanse  of  rock  by  a 
large  bend  of  the  Saco  and  lingered  there 
under  the  infinite  charm  of  the  place.  The 
rich  full  lapse  of  the  river,  the  perfect  brown- 
ness,  clear  and  deep,  as  of  liquid  agate,  in  its 
wide  swirl,  the  large  indifferent  ease  in  its 
pace  and  motion,  as  of  some  great  benevolent 
institution  smoothly  working;  all  this,  with 
the  sense  of  the  deepening  autumn  about, 
gave,  I  scarce  know  what  pastoral  nobleness 
to  the  scene,  something  raising  it  out  of  the 
reach  of  even  the  most  restless  of  analysts. 
The  analyst,  in  fact,  could  scarce  be  restless 


n6  1benr£  James 

here;  the  impression,  so  strong  and  so  final, 
persuaded  him  perfectly  to  peace.  This, 
on  September  Sunday  mornings,  was  what 
American  beauty  should  be;  it  filled  to  the 
brim  its  idea  and  its  measure, — albeit  Mount 
Washington,  hazily  overhung,  happened  not 
to  contribute  to  the  effect.  It  was  the  great, 
gay  river,  singing  as  it  went,  like  some  reck 
less  adventurer,  good-humoured  for  the  hour 
and  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  that 
argued  the  whole  case  and  carried  everything 
assentingly  before  it. 

Not  all  the  references  are  as  happy 
as  these,  or  as  full  of  the  splendid  and 
tranquil  joy  of  the  season.  Readers 
of  the  ''Impressions,"  will  not  have 
missed  in  them  the  frequent  mention 
of  taste,  the  frequent  assumption  of  it 
in  the  land  itself,  its  natural  arrange 
ment,  its  recondite  suggestions  of  draw 
ing-rooms,  and  dining-tables.  These 
are  vagaries  of  instinct,  noted  only  as 
determining  the  individual  bent  of  the 


Ube  Genius  of  place          117 

writer's  mind  away  from  the  uncivil 
ised  and  uninhabited,  that  make  one 
realise  how  familiarity  may  breed,  not, 
indeed,  contempt,  but  its  opposite  in 
certain  exclusive  sympathies  and  ap 
preciations.  The  whole  explanation 
lies,  perhaps,  in  the  question  following 
one  of  the  freer — one  of  the  perfect 
passages  of  description: 

Did  one  by  chance  exaggerate,  did  one 
rhapsodise  amiss,  and  was  the  apparent 
superior  charm  of  the  whole  thing  mainly 
but  an  accident  of  one's  situation,  the  state 
of  having  happened  to  be  deprived  to  excess 
— that  is,  far  too  long — of  naturalism  in 
quantity  f  Here  it  was  in  such  quantity  as 
one  hadn't  for  years  had  to  deal  with;  and 
that  might  by  itself  be  a  luxury  corrupting 
the  judgment. 

For  the  American  reader  it  is  the 
rhapsody  that  attests  a  judgment 
still  uncorrupted,  and  a  taste  for  the 


Dent£  James 


purest  in  "style,"  and  that  makes  the 
covetous  wish  that  a  writer  so  equipped 
with  the  faculties  of  observation  and 
reflection  could  oftener  have  looked 
upon  "nature  unadorned/'  to  record 
its  richer  suggestions. 


Ill 

BUT  we  have  gained  from  this  long 
relinquishment  of  "naturalism,"  no 
doubt,  the  sense,  quite  as  valuable  and 
perhaps  more  persistently  interesting, 
of  civilisation  and  the  presence  of 
wealth. 

In  all  the  work  of  Mr.  James  we  are 
conscious  of  a  massive  material  splen 
dour  against  which  are  thrown  the 
shimmering  reflections  of  character 
and  temperament.  However  elusive 
these  may  be,  the  world  we  see  about 
us  is  firm  and  rich  as  cloth  of  gold;  and 
while  money  is  infrequently  given  a 
prominent  place  in  the  discussion  of 

human  experience,  the  results  of  large, 
119 


120  Ibenrg  3ames 

of  immense  expenditures  are  every 
where.  The  wealth  of  centuries  is 
distilled  in  these  wonderful  houses, 
these  private  galleries  of  priceless  art, 
these  scattered,  precious  objects ;  while 
the  magnificence  of  the  social  scale, 
the  innumerable  festivities,  the  vast, 
if  not  entirely  noble  hospitality,  speak 
of  great  present  incomes  and  a  lavish 
disposition  of  them.  The  mere  im 
pression  of  assimilated  and  inexhaust 
ible  material  resources  is  not,  however, 
so  uncommon  in  English  fiction  as  to 
be  especially  worthy  of  note,  unless 
with  it  we  are  shown  a  mode  of 
thought  or  an  attitude  of  mind  to 
which  the  possession  and  conscious 
ness  of  wealth  bears  an  intimate 
relation. 

It  is  not  important  in  a  world  of 
acts   and   motives    that   people   have 


S\*  THE^P 

ft    l';    vGRSITY 

•v         _ 

TTbe  (Question  of  Tffllealtb      T2i 

money:  it  is  greatly  important  what 
they  do  with  it,  and  how  they  think 
of  it,  how  it  influences  their  lives  and 
the  lives  of  others.  What  is  the 
temper  of  Mr.  James's  characters  to 
ward  the  solid  substance  of  their 
fortunes,  often  of  such  heroic  propor 
tions?  Do  they  hoard  it,  do  they 
spend  with  lack  of  thrift,  do  they  give 
it  away?  It  is  suggestive  to  reflect 
that  in  the  case  of  the  Americans  they 
chiefly  give  it  away.  In  The  Portrait 
of  a  Lady,  that  story  of  multitudinous 
threads,  the  attitude  of  Isabel  Archer 
toward  her  inherited  means  indicates 
how  literally,  for  her,  money  is  means, 
the  means  in  this  instance  of  endow 
ing  a  scoundrel, — but  that  is  a  matter 
apart.  After  receiving  her  uncle's  leg 
acy  the  question  at  once  became  how 
to  get  rid  of  it.  But  for  her  money 


122  Ibenrs  3ames 

she  would  not  have  married   as   she 
did: 

At  bottom  her  money  had  been  a  burden, 
had  been  on  her  mind,  which  was  filled  with 
the  desire  to  transfer  the  weight  of  it  to 
some  other  conscience.  What  would  lighten 
her  own  conscience  more  effectually  than  to 
make  it  over  to  the  man  who  had  the  best 
taste  in  the  world?  Unless  she  should  give 
it  to  a  hospital,  there  was  nothing  better  she 
could  do  with  it ;  and  there  was  no  charitable 
institution  in  which  she  was  as  much  in 
terested  as  in  Gilbert  Osmond.  He  would 
use  her  fortune  in  a  way  that  would  make 
her  think  better  of  it,  and  rub  off  a  certain 
grossness  which  attached  to  the  good  luck  of 
an  unexpected  inheritance.  There  had  been 
nothing  very  delicate  in  inheriting  seventy 
thousand  pounds;  the  delicacy  had  been  all 
in  Mr.  Touchett's  leaving  them  to  her.  But 
to  marry  Gilbert  Osmond  and  bring  him 
such  a  portion — in  that  there  would  be  deli 
cacy  for  her  as  well. 

In  The  Bostonians  the  same  hesita 
tion  to  enjoy  the  sweet  fruits  of  pro- 


ZTbe  Question  of  Tldealtb       123 

sperity  is  conspicuous  in  the  attitude 
of  Olive  Chancellor  toward  the  '  *  elegant 
home "  to  which  her  cousin  makes 
brazen  reference:  "Do  you  make  it  a 
reproach  to  me  that  I  happen  to  have 
a  little  money?"  she  bitterly  asks, 
"The  dearest  wish  of  my  life  is  to  do 
something  with  it  for  others — for  the 
miserable. "  The  kind  old  father  in 
The  Reverberator  is  a  helplessly  mon 
eyed  person,  but,  once  having  made 
his  fortune,  the  last  thing  that  occurs 
to  him  is  the  desirability  of  keeping  it. 
His  prospective  son-in-law  announces 
to  him  his  own  disinherited  state : 

"I  ought  to  let  you  know,"  he  says,  "that 
my  father  now  declines  to  do  anything  for 
me." 

"To  do  anything  for  you?" 

"To  give  me  any  money." 

"Well,  that  makes  me  feel  better,"  said 
Mr.  Dosson. 


124  IbentE  James 

"There  11  be  enough  for  all — especially  if 
we  economise  in  newspapers,"  Delia  declared, 
jocosely. 

To  have  " enough  for  all"  appears 
to  be  the  financial  ideal  of  the  Ameri 
can  parent,  as  Mr.  James  conceives 
him:  this  seems  to  him  the  chief  use 
of  his  millions.  Adam  Verver,  in  The 
Golden  Bowl,  plans,  to  be  sure,  an  in 
vestment  of  his  wealth  unsurpassed 
in  "style"  by  the  methods  of  the 
Renaissance  princes.  What  could  be 
more  definitely  in  the  "grand  man 
ner"  than  his  fastidious  search  for 
morceauoc  de  muse*e,  his  odyssey  for 
the  love  of  stainless  trophies,  his 
willingness  in  the  presence  of  superior 
value  to  "give  the  price,"  yet  the 
conscious  motive  of  his  life  is  accumu 
lation  for  the  sake  of  bestowal;  for 
the  final  enrichment  of  American  City, 


TTbe  (Question  of  Wealtb       125 

the  place  where  he  started  in  business 
and  toward  which,  characteristically, 
he  feels  a  sentiment  of  indebtedness,  a 
desire  to  make  up  to  it  for  having 
benefited  him.  And  "his  easy  way 
with  his  millions,"  it  is  thrown  out, 
taxes  to  small  purpose,  in  the  case 
of  the  legal  arrangements  for  his 
daughter's  marriage,  the  principle  of 
reciprocity.  The  beautiful  heroine  of 
The  Wings  of  the  Dove  has  even  an 
easier  way  with  her  millions,  a  way  so 
easy  that  mere  death  is  made  to  seem 
a  small  price  to  pay  for  a  piece  of  be 
neficence  so  "good"  in  the  collector's 
sense  as  that  with  which  she  proposes 
to  cap  her  accumulations  of  kind 
attentions  to  her  fellow  mortals. 

In  choosing  this  mild,  beneficent  type 
to  represent  the  "successful  person" 
so  prominent  in  his  native  country, 


126  Ibenrs  James 

Mr.  James  has  carried  on  his  predi 
lection  for  that  quality  in  character 
which,  like  culture,  is  the  most  easily 
recognisable  and  the  least  easily  de 
fined.  Like  culture  it  suggests  per 
fection  as  "an  inward  condition  of  the 
mind  and  spirit"  and  is  wholly  in 
dependent  of  outward  circumstances. 
"Delicacy"  is  a  word  too  light  and 
frail  and  unimportant  to  carry  its 
mysterious  significance.  It  haunts  the 
spiritual  kingdom  of  his  men,  his  wo 
men,  and  his  children;  if  it  is  present, 
beauty  is  present;  if  it  is  absent, 
all  ornamental  attributes  wear  the 
aspect  presented  to  Maggie  Verver 
by  the  Golden  Bowl  after  its  connec 
tion  with  her  unhappiness  has  been 
discovered:  "As  a  'document/  some 
how,  it  was  ugly,  though  it  might  have 
a  decorative  grace." 


TTbe  Question  of  Mealtb       127 

It  is  not,  however,  to  be  inferred 
that  Mr.  James  confines  his  observa 
tion  of  the  moneyed  class  to  the  dozen 
or  more  delightful 'persons  for  whom 
their  money  is  the  ripest  of  opportu 
nities  to  display  their  indifference  to 
it  save  as  the  medium  of  sweet 
charity.  The  attitude  borne  by  his 
characters  toward  their  possessions 
is  always  implicitly  if  not  explicitly 
indicated  and  has  as  many  variations 
as  the  members  of  the  human  family 
show  in  their  manner  of  holding  them 
selves,  of  walking,  of  eating,  or  of 
dressing.  The  gross,  careless,  stupid 
way  of  expenditure  takes  its  place  in 
the  total  effect;  the  way  of  the  Brig- 
stocks  in  The  Spoils  of  Poynton,  with 
their  tragically  hideous  house,  "per 
versely  full  of  souvenirs  of  places  even 
more  ugly  than  itself  and  of  things 


128  IbentE  3ames 

it  would  have  been  a  pious  duty  to 
forget,"  their  love  of  the  polish  that 
is  put  on  with  a  brush,  their  avidity 
and  lack  of  aesthetic  standard  :*  the 
immoral  way  of  poor  Maisie's  various 
guardians,  marked  by  the  money- 
hunger  of  depraved  appetites;  the  im 
moderate,  insolent  way  of  a  society 
in  which  hostesses  and  guests  are  per 
petually  occupied  with  casting  big 
nets  for  large,  unintelligent  fish,  in 
which  the  poor  are  at  the  mercy  of 
the  opulent  and  pay  with  their  pride 
—as  at  Nundham — where  they  do  not 
pay  with  their  money ;  and  the  merely 
sumptuous,  liberal  way  of  such  places 
as  the  scene  of  The  Sacred  Fount, 
where  the  writer  of  the  story  reflects 
that  he  and  his  companions  were  so 
fine  and  formal  that  the  summer 
stars  called  to  them  in  vain — "  We  had 


Ube  Question  ot  Mealtb       129 

ignored  them  in  our  crystal  cage, 
among  our  tinkling  lamps;  no  more 
free  really  to  alight  than  if  we  had 
been  dashing  in  locked  railway  train 
across  a  lovely  land." 

The  one  point  usually  made  in  one 
way  or  another,   directly  or  by  con 
trast,  is  that  money  spells  opportunity. 
' '  What  do  you  mean  by  rich  ? ' '  old  Mr. 
Touchett  on  his  death-bed  inquires  of 
his  son,   "I^call  people  rich,"  Ralph 
responds,    "when    they    are    able    to 
gratify  their  imagination."     With  this 
superb   definition  of  wealth  to   start 
with,  much  may  be  done  in  tracing  its 
correspondence  to  the  actual  use   of 
money  in  life.     In  nearly  all  the  nov-7 
els  an  important  part  of  the  web  isN 
furnished  by  the  ability  or  inability  ] 
of  the  characters  to  gratify  their  im-  ' 
agination.     Occasionally  that  faculty 


9 


130  Ibenrs  James 


fattens  on  diet  of  the  sparest,  as  in 
the  case  of  the  telegraph  operator  at 
Cocker's  who  enters  the  homes  of 
luxury  vicariously  through  the  tele 
grams  coming  in  from  all  sides  upon 
her,  bringing  her  bits  of  the  great  life 
on  every  hand.  Less  rarely  it  takes 
an  immense  amount  of  wealth  to 
furnish  a  very  small  imagination.  As 
a  rule,  too,  the  pinched,  cramped, 
toiling  characters  depicted  in  a  few 
scattered  instances  rejoice  in  the  ex 
istence  of  money  in  the  world,  boast 
an  intuitive  knowledge  of  the  joys 
made  possible  by  it,  and  find  their 
satisfaction  in  dreaming  of  lives  con 
trolled  by  opulent  circumstances.  It 
was  because  Hyacinth  Robinson  in 
The  Princess  Casamassima  was  the 
child  of  a  member  of  the  aristocracy, 
we  must  infer,  that  he  felt  the  tug  of 


ZTbe  (Question  of  TKHealtb        131 

his  heritage  of  fastidious  tastes  and 
interests,  but  the  old  dressmaker, 
who  rescues  him  from  the  gutter,  feels 
a  glory  in  his  lineage  sufficient  to 
eclipse  entirely  in  her  mind  the  shame 
of  it,  and  Rosy  Mumiment,  the  sister 
of  the  socialist,  and,  from  the  worldly 
standpoint,  altogether  the  most  hope 
lessly  afflicted  member  of  the  dramatis 
persona,  visits  upon  her  brother  ridi 
cule  and  reproach  for  his  antagonism 
toward  the  "upper  classes."  This, 
no  doubt,  is  a  rather  fine  frame  of 
mind.  It  has,  at  all  events,  the  air  of 
dignity  inseparable  from  an  ungrudg 
ing  willingness  to  recognise  superiority 
without  cringing,  even  where  the  su 
periority  is  a  purely  material  asset. 
The  opposite  frame  of  mind  is  shown, 
as  if  for  the  value  of  contrast,  in  one 
conspicuous  instance,  that  of  Kate 


132  Dents  James 

Croy's  unscrupulously  abject  family  in 
The  Wings  of  the  Dove.  Here  are  the 
cringing  and  the  overbearing  spirit  in 
cheerless  union.  The  crumpled,  soiled 
and  undistinguished  poverty  of  Mar 
ian  Condrip's  much -mismanaged  home 
flaunts  itself  like  the  flag  of  pestilence 
to  the  recognition  of  the  reader.  Her 
''touchiness"  on  the  subject  of  her 
disagreeable  dwelling  and  unpolished 
little  ones  prepares  the  mind  for  the 
absence  of  self-respect  in  her  attitude 
toward  wealth,  her  abasement  before 
possible  means  of  revenue.  Her 
mother  had  instilled  into  her  mind 
early  in  life  the  proper  mental  relation 
to  a  rich  Aunt.  To  be  wounded  and 
stiff  while  accepting — this  was  the 
mark  of  the  genuine  pride  of  poverty: 
"The  little  she  offered  was  to  be  ac 
cepted  under  protest,  yet  not,  really, 


Ube  (Sluestton  of  TKIlealtb        133 

because  it  was  excessive.  It  wounded 
them — there  was  the  rub! — because  it 
it  fell  short." 

For  this  type,  and  for  this  alone, 
Mr.  James  has  an  almost  invidious 
touch.  vGenerously  as  he  treats  all 
members  of  the  human  family  who  in 
either  their  intellectual  or  moral  out 
look  show  a  trace  of  nobility,  for  the 
people  who  grovel  he  makes  not  even 
the  apology  of  the  creator  to  whom 
nothing  he  has  created  is  alien.  The 
story  of  Kate  Croy  and  Milly  Theale 
is  fairly  divided  among  those  whose 
attitude  toward  money  is  their  dis 
tinction.  Grovelling,  brutality,  and 
generosity  are  all  freely  exhibited, 
and  the  ill-spenders  and  ill-keepers 
are,  together,  as  in  Dante's  Inferno, 
scuffling  over  a  fair  world  lost.  The 
tissue  of  sordid  hopes,  ignoble  schemes, 


134  IbentE  3ames 

monstrous  treacheries,  would  be  the 
dreariest  product  of  the  human  imag 
ination,  not  even  to  be  surpassed  by 
the  Cousin  Betty  of  Balzac,  were  it  not 
for  the  spirit  of  the  "Dove,"  hovering 
in  pity  and  tenderness  over  a  world 
of  penury  and  envious  desire.  This, 
to  be  sure,  is  saying  that  life  without 
goodness  would  be  all  evil,  but  with 
Mr.  James  the  evil  is  seldom  so  un 
mitigated  as  in  this  case  by  tritura- 
,  tions  of  the  good.  Of  the  taste  defined 
by  the  French  as  the  prompt  ability  to 
discern  the  presence  of  beauty  amid 
defects  he  has  so  much  that  we  are 
seldom  confronted  in  his  work  with 
more  than  a  fragment  of  purely  vicious 
human  nature.  Even  of  poverty  as 
poverty,  of  the  ugly,  grim,  dismal  side 
of  it,  there  is  little.  In  his  total  view 
of  life  he  is  inconclusive  in  that  di- 


(Question  of  Mealtb        135 


rection.  It  is  not  easy  to  gather  from 
him  that  he  is  curious  about  the 
desperately  downtrodden  and  help 
lessly  unfortunate.  In  The  Princess 
Casamassima,  a  book  entirely  dedi 
cated  to  the  violent  social  inequalities 
of  a  great  civilisation,  he  throws  over 
the  scene  a  light  so  complex  as  to  be 
merely  bewildering.  Carefully  as  the 
field  is  studied  there  is  an  absence  of 
concentration,  a  faltering  in  message,  a 
sense  of  confusion,  and,  one  is  tempted 
to  suspect,  a  possible  lapse  of  interest, 
as  if  the  writer  were  not  wholly  won 
by  his  theme.  The  gulf  between  the 
heights  and  depths  of  London  life  in 
its  extreme  variations  is  perhaps  too 
great  to  be  bridged  in  any  one  novel, 
especially  by  an  author  for  whom 
the  smallest  problem  of  our  involved 
human  relations  presents  innumerable 


136  tbenrs  James 

gradations  and  shades  to  be  taken 
account  of  in  the  artistic  solution. 
It  is  in  The  Princess  Casamassima, 
however,  that  he  introduces  Millicent 
^Henning,  the  big,  joyous  symbol  of  the 
/energetic,  capable  working-class,  the 
Vmost  vivid  to  be  found  in  fiction.  No 
other  portrait  of  a  member  of  this 
much-depicted  class  awakens  such  a 
sense  of  life  and  movement,  of  health 
and  powers  in  full  activity.  Millicent 
is  fine  and  bold  and  big  of  bone,  loud- 
voiced  and  cheap  in  taste,  fearless, 
fresh,  and  beautiful.  Her  vulgarity 
is  faced  with  a  courage  equal  to  her 
own;  but  we  think  of  her  finally  as 
something  pleasant  to  remember,  some 
thing  like  a  swift  rush  of  air  through 
close  rooms,  like  vivid  blossoms  set 
in  dingy  window  casements.  Her  im 
age  is  as  far  as  possible  from  the  type 


Ube  (Question  of  TKIleaitb       137 

of  failure;  is  quite,  within  its  range, 
the  type  of  success  in  its  abounding 
physical  vigour,  its  strength  of  growth 
and  coarseness  of  texture,  its  freedom 
and  conventionality,  its  worldliness 
and  honest  kindness.  Here,  certainly, 
the  author  was  interested,  we  may 
freely  imagine,  even  captivated  by 
the  bloom  and  brightness  of  his  hand 
some  young  subject.  He  says  of 
her: 

She  was  very  handsome,  with  a  shining, 
bold,  good-natured  eye,  a  fine,  free,  facial 
oval,  an  abundance  of  brown  hair,  and  a 
smile  which  showed  the  whiteness  of  her 
teeth.  Her  head  was  set  upon  a  fair,  strong 
neck,  and  her  tall  young  figure  was  rich  in 
feminine  curves.  Her  gloves,  covering  her 
wrists  insufficiently,  showed  the  redness  of 
those  parts,  in  the  interstices  of  the  numerous 
silver  bracelets  that  encircled  them,  and 
Miss  Pynsent  made  the  observation  that  her 
hands  were  not  more  delicate  than  her  feet. 
She  was  not  graceful,  and  even  the  little 


138  fbenrs  James 

dressmaker,  whose  preference  for  distin 
guished  forms  never  deserted  her,  indulged 
in  the  mental  reflection  that  she  was  common, 
for  all  her  magnificence ;  but  there  was  some 
thing  about  her  indescribably  fresh,  successful 
and  satisfying.  She  was,  to  her  blunt,  ex 
panded  finger-tips,  a  daughter  of  London,  of 
the  crowded  streets  and  hustling  traffic  of 
the  great  city ;  she  had  drawn  her  health  and 
strength  from  its  dingy  courts  and  foggy 
thoroughfares,  and  peopled  its  parks  and 
squares  and  crescents  with  her  ambitions; 
it  had  entered  into  her  blood  and  her  bone, 
the  sound  of  her  voice  and  the  carriage  of  her 
head ;  she  understood  it  by  instinct  and  loved 
it  with  passion;  she  represented  its  immense 
vulgarities  and  curiosities,  its  brutality  and 
its  knowingness,  its  good-nature  and  its  im 
pudence,  and  might  have  figured,  in  an 
allegorical  procession,  as  a  kind  of  glorified 
towns-woman,  a  nymph  of  the  wilderness 
of  Middlesex,  a  flower  of  the  accumulated 
parishes,  the  genius  of  urban  civilisation,  the 
muse  of  cockneyism.  The  restrictions  under 
which  Miss  Pynsent  regarded  her  would  have 
cost  the  dressmaker  some  fewer  scruples  if 
she  had  guessed  the  impression  she  made 
upon  Millicent,  and  how  the  whole  place 


Ube  CJuestton  of  Mealtb        139 

seemed   to   that   prosperous  young  lady   to 
smell  of  poverty  and  failure. 

One  has  the  feeling  in  reading  this 
description  that  this  is  the  normal 
outcome  of  poverty,  which  is  a  dragon 
to  be  laid  low  by  the  sword  of  boldness, 
of  bravery,  of  confidence;  that  it  is 
only  potentially  a  monster  and  ready 
at  the  magic  touch  of  efficiency  to 
throw  off  its  shell  and  declare  itself  the 
radiant  godmother  of  the  fairy-tale. 
And  this,  we  may  argue,  is  the  healthy, 
philosophic  mood,  removed  equally 
from  facile  optimism  and  languid  pes 
simism.  It  is  not,  however,  the  mood 
commonly  displayed  by  Mr.  James  to 
ward  failure  and  success.  It  is,  in 
deed,  hardly  too  bold  an  inference  to 
draw  from  the  mass  of  his  work  that  he 
prefers  the  former  to  the  latter,  but 
it  must  be  failure  that  includes  success. 


140  1foenr£  James 

It  must  be  failure  based  on  deliberate 
choice  between  obvious  arrival  and 
subtle  detention  in  the  journey  toward 
accomplishment.  The  artists,  writers, 
the  men  of  business,  like  Strether, 
whose  moral  is  that  in  any  affair 
involving  an  obligation  the  saving 
grace  is  not  to  get  anything  for  your 
self, — these  are  the  people  who  stand 
a  little  at  one  side  in  the  novels,  con 
nected  by  a  temperamental  kinship, 
and  always  peculiarly  likable,  inter 
esting,  modest,  fine.  If  they  are  sel 
dom  greatly  endowed  with  the  goods 
of  the  world  they  have  found  their 
account  in  riches  of  the  mind  and  the 
imagination.  They  are  the  types  who 
"  gratify  their  imagination"  with  a 
currency  somewhat  more  precious  than 
the  coin  of  the  realm;  who  are  posi 
tively  richer  than  they  could  be  with 


Ube  (Question  ot  Mealtb 


that  commodity,  since  the  value  of 
most  things  lies  in  the  amount  that 
has  been  sacrificed  for  them.  Even 
Kate  Croy,  with  her  developed  liking 
for  material  things,  saw  money  as  a 
means  —  a  means  of  obtaining  Merton 
Densher,  and  it  was  "on  the  side  of  the 
mind  that  Densher  was  rich  for  her, 
and  mysterious  and  strong."  The  side 
on  which  in  his  vacillating,  dubious 
way  he  becomes  rich  and  strong  and 
mysterious  for  the  reader  is  a  different 
one;  but  certainly  he  is  never  so 
much  a  success  as  at  the  moment  of 
his  renouncement.  Densher,  however, 
is  one  of  the  least,  as  Strether  is  one  of 
the  most,  appealing  and  inspiriting 
images  of  failure.  The  great  point 
made  by  them  all  as  well  as  by  the 
images  of  success  is  that  genuine  satis 
factions  are  tremendously  expensive; 


142  Ibenrg  James 

that  either  in  life  or  art  or  money 
they  cost  prodigiously.  And  the  true 
favourites  of  fortune  are  those  who, 
not  ''asquint  in  mind,"  are  moved  to 
spend  "with  measure."  If  gold  can 
be  made  to  "drip  colour,"  to  use  his 
happy  description  of  St.  Marks,  Mr. 
James  approves  it.  If  it  adds  to  the 
richness  and  comeliness,  the  comfort 
and  charm  of  life,  it  is  in  the  great 
tradition  of  wealth,  and  if  not,  the 
wonderful  material  of  riches  is  merely 
poured,  inexpensively,  into  a  void  from 
which  it  must  again  be  gathered,  for 
fresh  permutation. 

This  is  not  a  new  or  isolated  view  of 
the  question  of  wealth,  but  one  that 
has  been  cherished  by  all  philosophers, 
from  the  time  of  the  singer  of  sweet 
Colonus,  who  have  seen  life  steadily 
and  seen  it  whole.  The  contribution 


(SJuestion  ot  Mealtb       143 


made  to  it  by  Mr.  James  is  largely  one 
of  the  temper  in  which  it  is  presented; 
the  admirable  liberality  with  which 
inclusion  is  made.  It  is  certainly  rare 
for  an  aesthetic  taste  so  strong  and 
so  sensitive  to  perceive  the  positive 
aesthetic  value  of  moral  and  intellectual 
visions.  It  is  rare  for  the  temperament 
of  the  dreamer  and  mystic  to  have  so 
true  an  intuition  for  details  of  form 
and  surface  in  tangible  objects.  Ap 
preciation  of  the  two  kinds  and  uses 
of  wealth,  the  material  and  the  imma 
terial,  —  this,  perhaps,  is  the  marked 
characteristic  of  his  representation 
of  society  in  which  the  "picture  and 
the  idea"  are  present  in  such  even 
proportion. 


IV 

THE  temper  of  the  dreamer  and  the 
mystic  united  to  that  of  the  observer 
and  analyst  gives  an  extraordinary 
chance  for  the  play  of  imagination, 
and  imagination,  of  course,  is  of  the 
very  essence  of  vital  fiction.  Without 
it  we  may  have  moral  force,  con 
scientious  observation  and  report,  even 
charm  and  the  semblance  of  life,  but 
we  shall  not  have  life  itself.  The 
"busy  inner  world-building  power  of 
our  minds, "  continually  supported  by 
our  experience  and  the  report  of  our 
senses,  is  what  makes  coherent  and 
sane  the  "show  world"  with  which, 
if  we  happen  to  be  artists,  we  strive 

to  explain  the  actualities  surrounding 

144 


•(Imagination  145 


us.  We  all  of  us,  even  if  we  are  not 
artists,  have  to  a  certain  degree  this 
world-building  power;  but  unless  it  is 
present  in  eminent  force  in  the  work 
of  dramatists  and  novelists  we  miss 
from  that  work  the  deep,  rich  flow  of 
character  through  plastic  forms  and 
apparently  capricious  facts.  We  miss 
the  compelling  sense  of  reality  pro 
duced  by  correspondence  between  the 
understanding  and  things  seen.  If  the 
objects  defined  for  us  by  the  artist 
follow  the  outline  of  his  thought  and 
are  expressive  of  an  inner  life  which 
he  shares  with  the  inexpressive  portion 
of  humanity,  we  recognise  them,  not 
as  dead  symbols,  but  as  quick  with  the 
universal  pulse.  If  the  men  and  wo 
men  placed  by  him  at  different  angles 
for  our  inspection  look  out  of  their 
eyes  with  suggestions  of  a  personal 


146  Dent£  5ames 

"^experience  into  which  we  ourselves 
may  enter  by  the  gate  of  personal 
interest;  if  they  make  us  realise  per 
fectly  that  there  are  lives  other  than 
our  own  which  we  may  live;  other 
than  our  own,  yet  familiar  to  us  so  far 
as  we  have  explored  the  region  of  the 
soul,  we  know  that  the  world  has  been 
enlarged  for  us  and  that  we  have 
been  in  the  presence  not  of  sterile  but 
of  life-producing  art;  art  which,  in 
a  word,  is  at  the  service  of  creative 
imagination. 

This  is  the  only  test.  The  questions 
of  method,  style,  and  theory,  so  deeply 
important  to  the  artist  himself,  are 
only  secondarily  interesting  to  the 
critic.  By  whatever  method  of  art 
the  sense  of  life  has  been  produced,  if 
it  is  there  the  performance  to  one 
degree  or  another  is  successful,  and 


flmaoinatfon  147 


by  the  recognition  or  non- recogni 
tion  of  it  the  critic  must  stand  or 
fall.  But  if  it  is  there,  one  most 
plausibly  may  argue,  it  must  affirm 
itself,  it  is  the  business  of  the  artist 
to  make  it  unmistakable.  To  whom? 
To  all? 

We  must  then  limit  the  province  of 
the  artist  to  the  basic  type  of  life,  if 
there  be  one,  the  simplicity  of  which  is 
beyond  the  recognition  of  none,  other 
wise  it  would  be  impossible  to  draw 
the  line.  If  not  for  all,  for  what  class 
of  the  public  should  writers  write, 
painters  paint,  musicians  compose, 
architects  build?  If  we  look  at  art 
from  the  socialist's  standpoint  we  may 
very  well  insist  that  its  highest  form 
is  a  universal  form  from  which  all 
classes  of  mind  can  get  equal  pleasure. 
But  if  art  means  to  us  the  extension  of 


148  UtentK?  James 


our  power  to  link  fresh  truth  to  that 
already  within  the  range  of  our  ex 
perience;  if  it  means  the  binding  this 
and  that  on  every  hand  to  the  know 
ledge  of  life  already  possessed;  if  it 
means  the  fusion  in  one  emotion  of 
recognition  and  surprise,  as  if  in  the 
beings  of  a  new  world  we  should 
recognise  the  familiars  of  the  old,  ob 
viously  we  cannot  set  limits  and  im 
pose  restrictions.  If  we  wish  to  be  let 
out  into  a  region  of  new  images  and 
fresh  feelings,  to  bar  the  door  is  not  the 
effective  first  step.  If,  giving  ourselves 
the  utmost  freedom,  however,  and  mak 
ing  no  restrictive  demands,  we  find  in 
the  fictitious  characters  under  our  ob 
servation  unreasonableness,  lawlessness 
and  incoherence,  a  want  of  unifying 
intelligence  behind  their  activities,  of 
personal  feeling  behind  their  exhibited 


imagination  149 


traits,  we  are  justified  in  doubting 
their  source  in  a  constructive  or  cre 
ative  imagination.  Are  we  thus  disap- 
appointed  in  the  characters  Mr.  James 
has  made?  Are  they  not  stamped 
with  both  universal  and  particular 
truth,  and  do  they  not  live  as  the 
result  of  his  personal  point  of  view? 
Are  they  real  and  expressive,  or  are 
they  fantastic  and  futile,  merely  liter 
ary  as  opposed  to  human  figures  ? 

The  answer  to  this  query  is  not  to 
be  given  by  the  inattentive  reader. 
The  fact  that  Mr.  James  surrounds 
his  figures  with  atmosphere;  that  he 
forms  them  by  such  an  expensive 
process,  to  use  an  expression  of  his 
own;  that  he  builds  them  slowly, 
richly,  with  accumulations  of  experi 
ence  and  reflection;  that  he  provides 
for  them  a  close  tissue  of  relations  and 


James 


contacts,  —  all  this  prevents  their  spring 
ing  full-grown  into  our  consciousness 
at  the  first  moment  of  our  knowing 
them.  And  we  may  reflect  that  this 
is  also  true  of  the  people  with  whom 
we  have  had  our  most  enduring  rela 
tions  in  the  actual  world.  We  must 
admit,  in  any  case,  that  such  psycho 
logically  complex  creations  as  Maisie 
Farange,  Nanda  Brookenham,  and 
Maggie  Verver  are  not  for  a  merely 
bowing  acquaintance.  In  life  such 
an  acquaintance  would  present  each 
of  them  as  a  perfectly  simple  person, 
as  even,  perhaps,  a  trifle  dull.  To 
show  the  amount  of  colour  and  tone  in 
these  apparently  pale  intelligences  Mr. 
James  interprets  with  precision  and 
subtlety  '  their  shades  of  feeling,  and 
distils  from  their  character  its  finest 
essence.  It  is  possible  that  short  cuts 


Imagination  151 


exist  for  producing  the  same  result, 
but  no  short  cut  known  to  the  novelist 
as  yet  has  done  it.  The  complexity 
of  the  simple  is  a  delicate  matter  to  deal 
with,  and  the  intellectual  instrument 
can  hardly  be  too  delicately  used.  If, 
however,  the  attention  of  the  reader  is 
won,  the  impression  left  with  him  is  of 
a  whole  and  human  conception.  Dis 
section  into  small  parts  is  not  the  same 
thing  as  the  putting  together  of  small 
parts  to  form  a  large  effect ;  and  a  writer 
of  the  artistic  importance  of  Mr.  James 
does  not,  of  course,  dissect  his  char 
acters,  although  the  expression  is  a 
favourite  one  with  his  critics.  His 
process  in  its  elementary  stages  may 
be  supposed  to  be  not  unlike  that  of 
almost  any  artist  worthy  of  discussion. 
With  him,  as  with  others,  no  doubt, 
the  idea  or  conception  stands  in  the 


152  Dents  James 

secret  workshop  of  his  mind,  a  living 
model,  not  a  mechanical  device,  fair 
and  thrilling  in  its  free,  primal  aspect. 
The  point,  then,  is  to  reproduce  it  in 
the  way  best  adapted  to  bringing  out 
its  characteristic  qualities,  and  this  is 
where  artistic  theory  may  come  in. 
The  formula  for  the  production  of  a 
masterpiece  is  given,  with  as  much 
precision  as  is  possible  to  any  formula, 
in  the  following  passage  from  The 
Tragic  Muse,  where  Sherringham  is 
visited  by  a  perception  of 

the  perfect  presence  of  mind,  unconfused, 
unhurried  by  emotion,  that  any  artistic  per 
formance  requires,  and  that  all,  whatever 
the  instrument,  require  in  exactly  the  same 
degree:  the  application,  in  other  words, 
clear  and  calculated,  crystal-firm  as  it  were, 
of  the  idea  conceived  in  the  glow  of  ex 
perience,  of  suffering,  of  joy. 

It  is  in  the  glow  of  experience,  of 


Imagination  153 


suffering,  of  joy,  certainly,  that  the 
imagination  creates  its  ideal;  the  rest 
is  workmanship,  and  the  manner  of 
this  depends  greatly  on  the  fulness 
of  expression  desired  by  the  artist. 
If  he  begins,  as  is  frequently  trie-case, 
with  a  swiftly  executed  cartoon  or 
sketch  of  his  plan,  he  almost  invariably 
puts  into  it  a  fire  and  spirit  which, 
with  equal  certainty,  more  or  less 
evaporate  in  the  elaborated  achieve 
ment.  A  sketch,  however,  can  be 
only  the  suggestion,  not  the  realisa 
tion  of  a  masterpiece.  If  we  care  only 
for  the  idea  in  its  simplest  aspect,  hot 
from  the  mind,  we  may  prefer  it ;  but 
if  we  care  for  the  value  and  function 
of  a  developed  conception,  passion 
ately  true  in  outline  and  modelling  to 
the  details  of  the  informing  thought, 
exquisitely  filled  out  and  refined,  we 


154  Ibenrs  3ames 


would  hardly  choose,  if  the  choice 
were  ours  to  make,  to  sacrifice  the 
masterpiece. 

If,  then,  we  perceive  in  such  a 
subject  as  —  in  the  case  of  Maisie  — 
the  development  of  the  moral  sense 
in  a  child  under  the  pressure  of  vice 
and  deception,  an  idea  demanding  the 
subtlest  realisation  of  the  actual  nature 
of  a  child,  and  if  in  the  accomplished 
work  we  perceive  the  lovely  flowering 
of  the  tortured  moral  sense  without  a 
strain  on  the  credulity  of  the  reader, 
we  must  suppose  that  the  creative 
imagination  has  been  effectively  at 
work,  whether  the  craftsmanship  has 
shown  as  loose  and  free  or  fine  and 
close  and  searching. 

If  in  The  Golden  Bowl  the  moral 
charm  of  the  theme  seems  to  us  to  lie 
in  the  portrayal  of  an  infrangible 


IFmaginatfon  155 


innocence  of  soul  to  be  found  at  the 
core  of  certain  natures,  and  if  Maggie 
Verver,  standing  light  and  clear  against 
a  background  of  infinite  complication, 
is  the  embodiment  of  that  innocence, 
we  must  from  all  experience  of  art 
assume  that  she  first  appeared  to  the 
artist  in  her  gracious  integrity,  and 
that  the  loading  of  her  lovely  portrait 
with  significant  detail  is  the  mark  of 
his  appreciation  of  how  much  existed 
in  her  to  express.  She  is,  in  fact, 
like  Maisie  and  Nanda  Brookenham 
and  Mildred  Theale,  at  once  a  type 
and  a  highly  specialised  individuality. 
She  is  a  type  of  the  goodness,  of  the 
engaging  naturalness  enhanced  and 
made  beautiful  by  delicacy  and  warmed 
by  intense  responsible  affections,  for 
appreciation  of  which  the  common 
world  has  no  sense  fine  enough.  She 


156  t>enr£  James 

is  not,  however,  left  in  the  spacious 
region  of  the  general,  where  a  few 
largely  composed  conceptions  of  human 
qualities  wander  about  for  our  easy 
discernment.  She  has  curious  intri 
cacies  of  feeling  and  judgment  hidden 
from  the  casual  glance.  Her  com- 
munings  and  doubtings  and  belie vings. 
bring  her  home  to  our  credence  as  a 
person  beside  whom  we  have  walked, 
in  whom  we  have  lived.  No  such 
sense  of  close  familiarity  broods  over 
our  intercourse  with  Thackeray's  Ame 
lia  and  Laura  Pendennis  or  George 
Eliot's  Romola  and  Dorothea  and 
Dinah,  who  in  their  way  stand  also 
for  responsible  affections.  An  imagin 
ation  of  the  most  vital  sort  is  required 
for  such  a  scene  as  that  between 
Maggie  and  her  father,  ending  in  the 
embrace,  ''august  and  almost  stern/' 


flmaainatiou  157 


that  sealed  the  expression  of  their 
belief  in  each  other.  Not  even  the 
frank  and  tender  pathos  of  Colonel 
Newcome's  relation  with  his  son  probes 
so  deeply  the  heart  of  the  filial  in 
stinct.  A  still  broader  and  swifter 
movement  of  the  mind  is  needed  for 
such  a  scene  as  that  between  Maggie 
and  the  Prince  in  the  presence  of  the 
shattered  bowl;  for  such  a  scene  as 
the  final  one  between  Nanda  and  Mr. 
Longdon,  or  that  on  which  Maisie  takes 
leave  of  Sir  Claude.  It  is  the  magic  of 
genius  thus  to  surprise  sentiment  at 
its  source,  and  at  moments  of  great 
moral  significance  to  move  the  heart 
with  pity. 

Ordinarily,  writers  possessed  of  the 
imagination  that  produces  life  to  a 
great  measure  are  lacking  in  deco 
rative  fancy.  Life  is  so  serious  to 


158  1foenr£  James 

them  even  as  the  subject  of  satire 
that  the  mind  declines  to  play  with  it, 
to  dress  it  in  costume,  and  laughingly 
parade  it.  Even  Thackeray,  invete 
rate  joker  as  he  was,  could  not  "have 
fun  with  his  mind."  His  fun,  where 
it  is  not  merely  the  ebullition  of  high 
spirits,  is  too  deeply  tinged  with  irony 
to  communicate  the  pleasure  of  the 
game.  With  Mr.  James,  however, 
fancy  follows  imagination  as  some 
fluttering  small  bird  follows,  some 
times,  perhaps,  impeding,  the  flight 
of  a  larger  one.  In  the  use  of  meta 
phor  especially,  this  swift  -  circling, 
darting  humour  holds  the  reader  fas 
cinated  by  its  unexpected  flashings 
and  flexions,  and  continually  enter 
tained  by  gay  parallels  and  whimsical 
suggestions.  What  could  be  more 
actively  in  the  comic  vein  than  the 


tfmacjination  159 


reflection  on  Maisie's  first  parting  from 
Mrs.  Wix?  "The  child  had  lately 
been  to  the  dentist's;  she  had  a  term 
of  comparison  for  the  screwed-up  in 
tensity  of  the  scene.  It  was  dread 
fully  silent,  as  it  had  been  when  her 
tooth  was  taken  out."  Maisie  herself, 
between  her  dreadful  parents,  is  "a 
ready  vessel  for  bitterness,  a  deep 
little  porcelain  cup  in  which  biting 
acids  could  be  mixed";  and  in  her 
pursuit  of  an  education  she  goes  to 
lectures  where  the  fountain  of  know 
ledge  in  the  form  of  a  high  voice 
plashes  "in  the  stillness  of  rows  of 
faces  thrust  out  like  empty  jugs." 
Lady  John's  "ornamental  informa 
tion"  in  The  Sacred  Fount  is  "as 
strong  as  a  coat  of  furniture  polish," 
and  that  mistress  of  both  culture  and 
slang  makes  one  think  of  "a  hat 


160  fbenrE  James 

askew  on  a  bust  of  Virgil,"  while  in  the 
same  book  May  Server's  bedimmed 
smile  flutters  "like  a  bird  with  a 
broken  wing."  Before  the  young  wo 
man  in  the  "Cage"  the  gathered 
bloom  of  London  experience  passes  at 
close  range — "the  nose  of  the  observer 
was  brushed  by  the  bouquet,  yet  she 
could  never  really  pluck  even  a  daisy. " 
The  heroine  of  "Europe"  makes 
her  tremendous  preparation  for  a  jour 
ney  to  that  foreign  clime,  and  her  sisters 
talk  of  her  preparation  "as  if  it  were 
some  mixture  for  application  some 
where,  that  she  kept  in  a  precious  bot 
tle."  Strether,  wandering  in  Paris,  has 
a  rich  consciousness  of  time — * '  a  bag  of 
gold  into  which  he  constantly  dipped 
for  a  handful. "  Strether,  again,  habit 
ually  shakes  the  bottle  in  which  Life 
hands  him  the  wine  of  experience  and 


Umaotnation  161 


finds  the  taste  of  the  lees  rising  into 
his  draught.  To  this  guileless  Ameri 
can,  too,  there  is  something  in  the 
great  world  "covertly  tigerish,"  which 
comes  to  him  in  the  charmed  air  of 
Gloriani's  garden-party  as  a  "waft 
from  the  jungle."  The  Boston  lady 
in  The  Wings  of  the  Dove  flits  "in  and 
out  of  the  Public  Library  with  the  air 
of  conscientiously  returning  or  bravely 
carrying  off  in  her  pocket  the  key  of 
knowledge  itself."  In  A  London  Life 
the  witty  expression  of  Lady  Daven- 
ant's  face  "shines  like  a  lamp  through 
the  ground-glass  of  her  good  breeding." 
These  copious  examples  of  apt  analogy 
and  comparison — one  could  pluck  them 
thus  ruthlessly  from  their  context  on 
nearly  every  page — give  an  air  of  re 
markable  readiness  and  brightness  to 
the  style.  They  season  it  as  the  best  of 


162  Ibenrp  3ames 

anecdote  seasons  talk.  They  make  it  as 
flexible  and  incidental  as  talk,  and  even 
where  they  are  most  like  the  froth  left 
by  the  wave  of  a  thought  breaking  on 
the  mind,  they  are  purely  spontaneous 
and  without  perversity.  They  are 
found  in  less  profusion  in  the  earlier 
books  than  in  the  later,  and  carry  less 
significance,  but  even  in  the  earliest 
they  spring  up  like  self-sown  flowers 
in  the  footprints  of  experience.  In 
The  Golden  Bowl  they  take  on  a  more 
complex  aspect  and  are  oftener  loaded 
with  a  meaning  that  haunts  the  mind. 
Such  a  figure  as  that  of  Charlotte, 
led  through  her  husband's  galleries 
by  a  long  silken  halter  looped  round 
her  beautiful  neck, — Adam's  wordless 
smiles  corresponding  to  soft  shakes  of 
the  silken  rope, — -becomes  an  insistent 
possession  of  the  reader's  thought 


•ffmaainatton  163 


which  follows  the  unfortunate  pair, 
thus  closely  held,  thus  surely  separated, 
to  their  doom  and  refuge  in  American 
City. 

Nor  can  one  easily  put  out  of  mind 
the  remarkable  image  figuring  the 
arrangement  by  which  Maggie  had 
been  able  to  marry  without  breaking 
with  her  past.  The  beautiful  situa 
tion, — Amerigo  and  Charlotte  living 
with  Maggie  and  Adam  in  intimacy 
for  the  admiration  of  all  observers, — 
the  situation  so  unusual,  so  liberal, 
but  at  the  first  moment  of  alarmed 
insight  so  baffling,  had  been  occupy 
ing  the  very  centre  of  the  garden  of 
Maggie's  life; 

but  it  had  reared  itself  there  like  some 
strange,  tall  tower  of  ivory,  or  perhaps 
rather  some  wonderful,  beautiful,  but  out 
landish  pagoda,  a  structure  plated  with  hard, 
bright  porcelain,  coloured  and  figured  and 


164  Ibenrs  James 


adorned,  at  the  overhanging  eaves,  with 
silver  bells  that  tinkled,  ever  so  charmingly, 
when  stirred  by  chance  airs.  She  had 
walked  round  and  round  it  —  that  was  what 
she  felt;  she  had  carried  on  her  existence  in 
the  space  left  her  for  circulation,  a  space  that 
sometimes  seemed  ample  and  sometimes 
narrow:  looking  up,  all  the  while,  at  the  fair 
structure  that  spread  itself  so  amply  and 
rose  so  high,  but  never  quite  making  out,  as 
yet,  where  she  might  have  entered  had  she 
wished.  She  had  not  wished  till  now  —  such 
was  the  odd  case;  and  what  was  doubtless 
equally  odd,  besides,  was  that,  though  her 
raised  eyes  seemed  to  distinguish  places  that 
must  serve,  from  within,  and  especially  far 
aloft,  as  apertures  and  outlooks,  no  door  ap 
peared  to  give  access  from  her  convenient 
garden  level.  The  great  decorated  surface 
had  remained  consistently  impenetrable  and 
inscrutable.  At  present,  however,  to  her  con 
sidering  mind  it  was  as  if  she  had  ceased 
merely  to  circle  and  to  scan  the  elevation, 
ceased  so  vaguely,  so  quite  helplessly  to 
stare  and  wonder:  she  had  caught  herself 
distinctly  in  the  act  of  pausing,  then  in  that 
of  lingering,  and  finally  in  that  of  stepping 
unprecedentedly  near.  The  thing  might  have 


Imagination  165 


been,  by  the  distance  at  which  it  kept  her,  a 
Mahometan  mosque,  with  which  no  base 
heretic  could  take  a  liberty;  there  so  hung 
about  it  the  vision  of  one's  putting  off  one's 
shoes  to  enter,  and  even,  verily,  of  one's 
paying  with  one's  life  if  found  there  as  an 
interloper.  She  had  not,  certainly,  arrived 
at  the  conception  of  paying  with  her  life  for 
anything  she  might  do;  but  it  was  neverthe 
less  quite  as  if  she  had  sounded  with  a  tap  or 
two  one  of  the  rare  porcelain  plates.  She 
had  knocked,  in  short — though  she  could 
scarce  have  said  whether  for  admission  or  for 
what;  she  had  applied  her  hand  to  a  cool, 
smooth  spot  and  had  waited  to  see  what 
would  happen.  Something  had  happened;  it 
was  as  if  a  sound,  at  her  touch,  after  a  little, 
had  come  back  to  her  from  within;  a  sound 
sufficiently  suggesting  that  her  approach  had 
been  noted. 

From  one  point  of  view  such  an 
elaboration  of  a  symbol  is  fantastic 
and  has  in  it  even  an  element  of 
perversity.  The  purely  literal  reader 
opening  a  second  volume  on  such  an 


166  Ibenrs  James 


astonishing  passage  throws  up  his 
hands  in  despair.  "Why  not  tell  us 
out  and  out,"  he  says,  "that  Maggie 
sees  their  position  to  be  impossible  and 
is  making  up  her  mind  to  break  in  on 
it?"  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  we  are 
told  precisely  this  "out  and  out,"  and 

/"we  are  given  the  picture  besides,  to 
make  more  vivid  our  sense  of  the  deep 

v  mystery  of  soul  and  conscience  in 
volved.  The  very  charm  of  it  lies  in 
the  fact  that  we  are  thrown  into  a 
childlike  state  of  wonder  at  the  strange 
beauties  to  be  found  in  the  course  of 
psychological  exploration.  From  the 
point  of  view  of  one  who  likes  it,  such 
an  exercise  of  the  imagination  brings 
back  the  delicious  early  sense  of  living 
in  a  fairy-tale,  but  without  the  sacrifice 
of  our  later  sense  of  reality.  We  gain 
from  it  both  the  show  of  things  and 


imagination  167 


their  significance,  both  the  fable  and 
the  moral,  both  the  text  and  the 
picture.  Reality  puts  on  for  us  a 
coat  of  many  colours  and  shines  and 
shimmers  in  a  hundred  lights.  The 
greater  writers  dear  to  the  English 
"facie",  Dante  and  Cervantes  and  Shake 
speare,  have  chosen  the  happy  road 
of  metaphor  and  illustration  to  bring 
home  to  us  subtle  moral  conditions, 
and  it  is  perhaps  only  a  somewhat 
ponderous  taste  or  a  somewhat  vain 
solemnity  that  fails  to  enjoy  the  spring 
of  the  intelligence  toward  a  play  with 
toys  so  precious.  At  all  events,  if  the 
fancy  of  The  Golden  Bowl  and  The 
Wings  of  the  Dove,  with  its  tossing 
balls,  its  rockets  and  Roman  candles, 
its  jewels  and  chariots,  its  outfit  of 
a  mimic  world,  does  not  lighten  for 
us  the  journey  toward  truth  sitting 


168  Dents  James 

austere  and  beautiful  at  the  heart  of 
the  maze;  if  we  find  triviality  in  the 
union  of  the  real  and  the  pictorial;  if 
we  have  not  patience  to  look  at  a 
theme  in  all  its  mingled  relations  and 
associations  and  suggestions,  we  are 
simply  too  much  out  of  it  for  our  own 
pleasure,  and  there  is  nothing  to  do 
but  turn  to  the  thinner  medium  of 
pure  allegory  or  the  colder  medium  of 
literal  prose. 


THE  only  drawback  to  an  eloquent, 
imaginative  style  is  that  it  sometimes 
obscures  by  its  very  exuberance  of 
expression  the  clear  philosophic  mes 
sage  which  from  an  observer  of  life  and 
manners  we  consistently  expect.  It 
is  perfectly  possible  with  Mr.  James  to 
miss  his  philosophy  of  life,  as  more 
than  one  critic  has  demonstrated.  It 
is  easy,  no  doubt,  in  a  wood  so  closely 
set  with  handsome  growth,  to  see  only 
the  trees.  It  may  even  be  difficult, 
from  one  or  two  or  three  of  the  novels, 
particularly  the  earlier  ones,  to  obtain 
the  synthetic  moral  effect,  the  positive 

moral  quality  of  the  theme  and  its 
169 


170  Ifoenrs  James 


treatment,  without  which  the  most 
ingenious  story  in  the  world  lacks 
interest  for  the  Anglo-Saxon  reader. 
But  from  the  work  in  mass  or  from 
any  one  of  the  later  examples,  save, 
perhaps,  The  Sacred  Fount,  which  sav 
ours  of  ironic  pleasantry  rather  than 
serious  exercise  of  power,  —  we  can 
hardly  fail  to  get,  in  addition  to  the 
exhilarating  sense  of  life  a  sense  of  the 
judicial  mind  back  of  the  performance. 
Mr.  James,  in  his  essay  on  The  Art  of 
Fiction,  so  frequently  quoted  for  and 
against  his  method,  has  laid  especial 
stress  on  the  air  of  reality,  the  necessity 
of  successfully  producing  the  illusion  of 
life,  but  he  also,  in  the  same  essay,  has 
called  attention  to  "the  very  obvious 
truth  that  the  deepest  quality  of  a 
work  of  art  will  always  be  the  quality 
of  the  mind  of  the  producer." 


171 


In  proportion  as  that  intelligence  is  fine  [he 
says]  will  the  novel,  the  picture,  the  statue 
partake  of  the  substance  of  beauty  and 
truth.  To  be  constituted  of  such  elements  is, 
to  my  vision,  to  have  purpose  enough.  No 
good  novel  will  ever  proceed  from  a  super 
ficial  mind;  that  seems  to  me  an  axiom 
which,  for  the  artist  in  fiction,  will  cover  all 
needful  moral  ground:  if  the  youthful  as 
pirant  take  it  to  heart  it  will  illuminate  for 
him  many  of  the  mysteries  of  "purpose." 

And  while  he  has  said  in  his  essay 
on  Daudet  that  "life  is,  immensely,  a 
matter  of  surface,  and  if  our  emotions 
in  general  are  interesting,  the  form  of 
those  emotions  has  the  merit  of  being 
the  most  definite  thing  about  them"; 
this  is  more  or  less  in  the  way  of  a 
civil  comment  on  the  fact  that  Daudet 
sees  "mainly  the  great  surface  of  life 
and  the  parts  that  lie  near  the  surface." 
Toward  the  end  of  the  essay  he  suggests 
that  Daudet's  insight  "fails  him  when 


172  Ibenrg  James 

he  begins  to  take  the  soul  into  account, ' ' 
and  "that  amounts,  after  all,  to  saying 
that  he  has  no  high  imagination  and, 
as  a  consequence,  no  ideas."  "Im 
aginative  writers  of  the  first  order," 
he  adds,  "always  give  us  an  impres 
sion  that  they  have  a  kind  of  philo 
sophy."  If  we  have  been  interested  in 
the  work  of  Mr.  James  we  are  certainly 
conscious  of  that  impression  from  it, 
whether  we  analyse  it  or  not  for  our 
selves.  The  reader  who  considers,  not 
at  all  as  an  analyst  or  a  critic,  but 
merely  as  an  interested  person,  the 
"tone" — in  this  instance  the  moral 
tone — of  his  writings,  finds  it  amply 
composed  of  moral  emotions,  prefer 
ences,  and  instincts — just  the  lack  of 
which  in  Charles  de  Bernard  caused 
him  to  define  that  writer  as  second-rate. 
Not  that  he  puts  up  sign-posts  along  the 


173 


page  to  show  the  direction  in  which  he 
is  leading  us — there  would  be  some 
thing  decidedly  not  in  character  in 
the  apologetic  nature  of  that  method. 
We  must  go  with  him  on  trust  if  we 
go  with  him  at  all,  but  the  timid  may 
find  in  his  criticism  of  other  artists 
plentiful  assurance  of  the  high  regard 
in  which  he  holds  the  moral  element  of 
a  work  of  art.  Morality,  he  some 
where  affirms,  is 

simply  a  part  of  the  essential  richness  of 
inspiration — it  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
artistic  process  and  it  has  everything  to  do 
with  the  artistic  effect.  The  more  a  work 
of  art  feels  it  at  its  source,  the  richer  it  is; 
the  less  it  feels  it,  the  poorer  it  is.  People  of 
a  large  taste  prefer  rich  works  to  poor  ones, 
and  they  are  not  inclined  to  assent  to  the 
assumption  that  the  process  is  the  whole 
work. 

This  is  only  one  of  many  utterances 
that  demonstrate  his  interest  in  the 


174  Ibenrs  James 


moral  world,  but  his  fullest  demonstra 
tion  of  it  is  in  his  novels  and  stories 
themselves,  where  his  subject  is  nearly 
always  laid  in  the  depths  of  human; 
character.     His  plot  turns  on  how  the 

i  persons  of  the  drama  feel  and  act  in 
responsible  relations.  The  society  in 
which  they  move  is  depicted  with  true 
magnificence  of  detail,  —  detail  with 
him,  as  with  Mrs.  Assingham,  finds 
him  and  leaves  him  unappalled  and 
unwearied,  —  and  the  correspondence 
with  life  is  close  enough  to  satisfy  the 
most  exacting  of  realists.  In  the  mat 
ter  of  conversation,  for  example,  the 
forms  of  speech  are  so  caught  in  the 
fleeting  idiom  as  to  make  one  tremble 
for  their  obsolete  appearance  in  the  . 
near  future.  But  the  "criticism  of 
life"  involved  in  his  choice  of  types, 
in  his  delineation  of  conduct,  and  the 


175 


importance  he  gives  to  special  qualities 
of  mind  and  heart  is  what,  after  all, 
determines  his  importance  in  litera 
ture.  These  are  what  suggest  the 
moral  reality  underlying  realities  of 
surface.  Charming  as  we  might  find 
the  detail  in  The  Golden  Bowl,  that 
work  would  not  be  greatly  significant 
to  us  if  what  we  traced  in  it  were 
merely  the  movement  of  shallow  pas 
sions  and  superficial  natures.  What  is 
important  in  The  Ambassadors,  back 
of  the  truly  masterly  execution  of  the 
difficult  theme,  is  the  awakening  of 
Strether  to  responsibilities  of  which 
he  has  become  aware  through  the  ir 
responsibility  of  others,  and  his  per 
sonal  renunciation  in  obedience  to  his 
sense  of  his  own  responsible  position. 
What  is  morally  important  in  The 
Awkward  Age  is  the  deep  response  of 


1 76  Ibenrg  3ames 

Nanda  Brookenham's  nature  to  the 
refuge  held  out  to  her  by  her  grand 
mother's  ancient  lover.  In  What 
Maisie  Knew  it  is  not  the  dreadful 
items  of  her  knowledge,  but  the  tri 
umph  of  her  beautiful  little  spirit  over 
their  vast  sum  that  gives  to  the  book  its 
moral  spring.  The  artistic  process  by 
which  these  interesting  and  deeply 
"moral"  persons  are  placed,  sur 
rounded  by  the  "miscellaneous  rem- 
plissage  of  life,"  and  helped  to  their 
air  of  verisimilitude  by  the  notation  of 
their  various  points  of  contact  with 
other  lives,  is  a  matter  for  discussion  by 
the  expert  critic,  not,  certainly,  by  the 
amateur  reader.  The  only  point  prop 
erly  to  be  made  by  the  amateur  is  that 
an  elevated  view  of  conduct  appears 
in  Mr.  James's  novels  and  is  em 
phasised  by  the  governing  reflection 


177 


that  holds  together  notes  of  incident 
and  observation.  If  to  have  a  philo 
sophy  of  life  is,  according  to  the  recent 
definition  of  a  most  accomplished  critic, 
"to  be  profoundly  impressed  by  cer 
tain  truths/*  it  is  pertinent  to  ask 
what  these  truths  in  the  present  case 
are.  Among  the  more  obvious  is,  to 
use  the  simplest  and  most  familiar  of 
terms,  the  beauty  of  goodness.  Since 
goodness  in  its  latent  and  hidden  and 
delicate  phases  is  made  to  play  so 
leading  a  part,  since  it  is  made  to 
comprise  so  many  gracious  qualities 
not  always  associated  with  it, — the 
pretty  habit,  in  Maisie  and  in  Maggie 
Verver,  for  example,  of  making  pleas 
ant  the  paths  of  their  companions  by 
a  sweet  pliancy  of  will  in  matters  of 
personal  comfort  or  choice, — since  pride 
and  selfishness  and  vanity  are  made 


178  Ibenrs  James 

ugly  not  by  emphasis  and  exaggera 
tion,  but  by  mere  contiguity  with 
their  so  much  lovelier  opposites  de 
picted  with  persuasive  appreciation, 
we  can  only  infer  that  goodness  in  its 
most  pervasive  and  least  aggressive, 
least  alloyed,  form  presents  to  Mr. 
James  the  appearance  of  beauty.  It 
may  be  a  question  of  moral  taste  or  of 
moral  conviction,  but  the  result  is  the 
same:  the  natures  that  in  his  novels 
represent  goodness  in  its  purity  also 
represent  extraordinary  charm.  Like 
the  radiant  Beatrice  they  are  ''exceed 
ing  rich  in  human  sympathies,"  and 
their  exquisite  kindness,  like  the  beauty 
of  that  fair  lady,  draws  round  them 
the  "clear  line  of  love  and  blessed 
faith  and  gentleness.'* 

Not  even  in  these  guileless  natures, 
however,  is  goodness  the  mere  passive 


IPbtlosopbs  179 


preference  for  amiable  acts  and  atti 
tudes  of  mind.  No  truth  more  power 
fully  impresses  their  author,  if  we  may 
judge  from  their  conduct,  than  the 
accountability  of  human  beings  to 
their  human  quality.  The  side  of 
human  nature  which  differentiates  it 
from  the  nature  of  the  lower  animals, 
the  side  by  which  people  draw  profit 
from  the  discipline  of  life,  hold  them 
selves  up  to  the  requirements  of  reason, 
and  recognise  their  responsibility  in 
the  moral  world,  is  that  on  which  he 
most  persistently  looks.  Few  of  all 
his  novels  and  stories,  and  their  num 
ber  has  been  great,  fail  to  present  a 
problem  of  choice.  The  motives  are 
not  little,  or  the  solutions  mean, 
although  the  picture  frequently  is  of 
a  sordid  society  and  a  debased  code  of 
conduct.  The  dark  side  is  there  in 


i8o  Ibenrs  James 

all  its  darkness,  although,  of  course, 
the  shadow  is  not  unrelieved.  Fre 
quently  we  observe  in  life  that  weak 
ness  is  charming,  for  example,  and 
many  of  the  weak  people  drawn  by 
Mr.  James  are  very  charming:  Vander- 
bank,  Sir  Claude,  and  the  Prince — even 
Chad  in  The  Ambassadors  has  an  as 
pect  of  charm,  which,  however,  seems 
to  sit  superficially  upon  him  and  not 
to  belong  to  his  essential  temper  as 
with  the  others  it  does.  But  their 
charm  does  not  save  them  from  the 
final  inference  drawn  from  their  his 
tories,  that  to  be  strong  and  reason 
able  and  kind  is  charming,  too,  and 
something  more.  This,  perhaps,  is  the 
most  vital  lesson  to  be  gained  from 
the  novels  of  Mr.  James  by  the  people 
who  ask  themselves  after  reading  a 
book  how  it  has  made  them  feel 


181 


toward  life.  It  is  a  moral  lesson  be 
cause  it  proceeds  from  a  profound  and 
definite  sense  of  moral  values.  It  is  all 
the  more  a  moral  lesson,  one  may 
reasonably  suspect,  because  it  is  not 
enunciated  with  the  voice  of  a  teacher 
for  whom  art  is  in  a  sense  a  tool  of 
trade,  like  the  old-fashioned  ferule  or 
the  new-fashioned  modelling-clay,  but 
with  the  voice  of  the  artist  for  whom 
his  art  is  his  whole  expression. 

And  it  is  not  less  impressive  because 
there  is  so  little  of  the  invidious  in  the 
attitude  taken  toward  the  human 
spectacle  at  large.  ''We  are  prone  to 
conceive  of  the  ultimate  novelist," 
Mr.  James  says  in  his  essay  on  Turge- 
nieff ,  ' '  as  a  personage  altogether  purged 
of  sarcasm."  Sarcasm  does  not,  in 
deed,  prevail  in  his  own  novels.  His 
treatment  of  his  personages,  bad  or 


1 82  f>enr£  James 

good,  is  respectful  to  the  extent,  at 
least,  that  he  takes  them  seriously, 
looks  deep  into  their  minds,  into  their 
souls,  and  gives  them  the  full  benefit 
of  all  he  finds  there.  If  they  are  in 
telligent  they  cannot  complain  that 
he  has  made  them  stupid;  if  they  have 
aspirations  and  enthusiasms  and  opin 
ions  they  cannot  bring  it  up  against  him 
that  he  has  missed  their  point  of  view. 
It  would  be  quite  absurd  to  judge  his 
picture  of  London  society — a  very  im 
portant  feature  of  his  work — without 
knowing  that  society  at  first  hand ;  but 
one  does  not  need  to  be  an  initiated 
person  to  perceive  that  his  ideal  of  taste 
for  an  observer  is  that  of  Mr.  Longdon 
in  The  Awkward  Age, — an  ideal  involv 
ing  an  immense  effort  wholly  to  under 
stand  before  pronouncing  judgment. 
It  will  be  remembered  that  in  the  case 


183 


of  Mr.  Longdon  the  final  result  of  his 
understanding  was  a  shouldering  of 
personal  responsibility  in  the  excellent 
tradition  of  his  generation  and  accord 
ing  to  the  prompting  of  his  own  con 
science  and  taste.  Conscience  and 
taste  are  not  so  widely  separated  with 
Mr.  James  as  with  many  writers,  and 
especially  with  many  moralists.  He 
puts  a  great  deal  of  taste  into  the 
exercise  of  his  conscience  and  a  great 
deal  of  conscience  into  the  exercise 
of  his  taste.  But  taste  as  he  uses 
it  has  a  somewhat  different  func 
tion  from  that  commonly  accorded  it. 
It  has  both  intellectual  and  moral 
force,  for  one  thing.  It  has,  to  give 
it  the  happy  definition  found  for  it  by 
Walter  Pater  in  his  chapter  on  Dia- 
phaneitt,  freshness  without  shallowness, 
"the  range  and  seriousness  of  culture 


184  Ifoenrs  James 

/ 

without  its  strain  and  over-conscious 
ness."  With  Mr.  James,  it  determines 
his  temper  toward  the  people  he  criti 
cises  and  toward  the  people  who  criti 
cise  him : 

however  incumbent  it  may  be  on  most  of  us 
to  do  our  duty  [he  says  in  his  essay  on 
Flaubert],  there  is,  in  spite  of  a  thousand 
narrow  dogmatisms,  nothing  in  the  world 
that  any  one  is  under  the  least  obligation  to 
like — not  even  (one  braces  oneself  to  risk  the 
declaration)  a  particular  kind  of  writing. 

It  determines  also  his  attitude  toward 
the  "great  passions,"  which  are  said 
mainly  to  be  left  out  of  his  work. 
The  greatest  of  them,  love,  is  not  so 
much  left  out  as  put  in,  but  oftenest 
in  the  guise  it  takes  with  responsible 
persons.  In  his  article  on  Loti  he  has 
told  us  his  opinion  about  that  writer's 

almost  inveterate  habit  of  representing  the 
closest  and  most  intimate  personal  relation 


pbflosopbs  185 


as  unaccompanied  with  any  moral  feeling, 
any  impulse  of  reflection  or  reaction  [and  at 
the  same  time  he  adds]:  The  closer,  the 
more  intimate  is  a  personal  relation  the 
more  we  look  in  it  for  the  human  drama, 
the  variations  and  complications,  the  note  of 
responsibility  for  which  we  appeal  in  vain 
to  the  loves  of  the  quadrupeds. 

It  is  passion  on  this  level  that  we  see 
in  his  more  distinguished  characters,  dis 
tinguished  by  the  ability  to  renounce  for 
the  happiness  of  others,  and  to  renounce 
without  bitterness,  or  to  bear  without 
bitterness,  if  the  case  require  that. 

"I  can  bear  anything — for  love," 
the  Princess  declares  in  her  talk  with 
Mrs.  Assingham,  when  she  is  first  as 
sured  that  her  husband  and  her  father's 
wife  are  in  love  with  each  other. 

"Of  your  father?"  her  friend  asks  her. 
"For  love,"  she  repeats. 
"Of  your  husband?" 
"For  love,"  she  says  again. 


186  t)enr£  James 

Later  in  the  book  she  explains  to  her 
father — as  only  such  a  daughter  could 
explain  to  such  a  father: 

"My  idea  is  this,  that  when  you  only  love 
a  little  you  're  naturally  not  jealous — or  are 
only  jealous  a  little,  so  that  it  does  n't 
matter.  But  when  you  love  in  a  deeper  and 
intenser  way,  then  you  are,  in  the  same  pro 
portion,  jealous,  your  jealousy  has  intensity 
and,  no  doubt,  ferocity.  When,  however, 
you  love  in  the  most  abysmal  and  unutter 
able  way  of  all — why  then  you  're  beyond 
everything  and  nothing  can  pull  you  down." 

This,  perhaps,  is  an  Anglo-Saxon 
form  of  the  "overmastering  passion " — 
it  has,  at  all  events,  no  striking  resem 
blance  to  that  commemorated  in  the 
fiction  of  the  Latin  races.  Its  great 
virtue  is  the  sense  it  gives  of  secur 
ity,  of  freedom  from  vicissitude.  But 
whatever  its  comparative  quality  it  is 
the  inspiration  of  the  characters  espe- 


187 


daily  celebrated  in  the  novels  of  Mr. 
James,  and  one  at  least  can  say  for  it 
that  it  is  a  very  dignified  emotion, 
which  does  not  interfere  with  the 
keeping  of  laws  human  or  divine.  If 
one  cared  to  carry  the  "lesson"  of 
The  Golden  Bowl  into  the  region  of 
applied  ethics  it  would  be  found  to 
emphasise  to  a  degree  extraordinary 
in  novels  the  weight  and  importance 
of  responsible  affection  as  opposed  to 
the  irresponsible  elements  threaten 
ing  it,  and  its  highly  superior  power  to 
uphold  and  put  life  into  the  institution 
of  marriage.  The  affection  of  Nanda 
for  Vanderbank  in  The  Awkward  Age 
carries  with  it  something  of  this  deep 
quality,  also;  it  permits  her  to  think 
for  others  in  their  way,  so  different 
from  her  own,  and  to  see,  moreover,  the 
lightness  of  Vanderbank  "for  himself" 


i88  IfoentE  James 

in  not  loving  her.  This  treatment  of 
"questions  of  the  heart"  is  not  con 
ventional  or  stereotyped,  but  may  it 
not  be  said  almost  in  itself  to  consti 
tute  a  " philosophy  of  life"  worthy  of 
comparison  at  least  with  that  of  other 
writers  of  fiction? 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

COMPILED  BY 
FREDERICK  ALLEN  KING 

THE  aim  of  the  present  bibliography  is  to 
furnish  literary  guidance.  A  chronological 
arrangement  has  been  chosen,  bringing  each 
part  of  the  author's  work — fiction,  essay,  or 
biography — into  one  logical  scheme  which 
exhibits  the  development  of  his  genius. 
Reference  is  made  to  the  periodical  giving 
initial  publication  and  also,  where  such  is  the 
case,  to  the  volume  where  the  story  or  essay 
has  been  reprinted  in  book  form.  It  has 
been  thought  expedient  to  dispense  with  the 
customary  spacing  of  book-titles.  Wherever 
possible,  reference  is  made  to  the  English  as 
well  as  American  editions.  It  is  feared, 
however,  that  the  present  list  does  not  in 
clude  mention  of  all  the  English  rearrange 
ments  nor  the  successive  reissues  of  groups  of 
stories,  necessary  data  being  unobtainable  on 
this  side  the  ocean. 

189 


190  Ibenrs  3ames 


1865 

The  Story  of  a  Year.     Atlantic  Monthly,  March. 
1866 

A  Landscape  Painter.    Atlantic  Monthly,  February. 
A  Day  of  Days.     The  Galaxy,  June.     Reprinted  in 

Stories  Revived  (1885). 
The    Novels    of   George    Eliot.     Atlantic   Monthly, 

October. 

1867 

My  Friend  Brigham.     Atlantic  Monthly,  March. 
Poor    Richard.     Atlantic    Monthly,    June-  August. 
Reprinted  in  Stories  Revived  (1885). 

1868 

The  Story  of  a  Masterpiece.  The  Galaxy,  January- 
February.  Illustrated  by  Gaston  Fay. 

The  Romance  of  Certain  Old  Clothes.  Atlantic 
Monthly,  February.  Reprinted  in  A  Passion 
ate  Pilgrim  (1875),  also  in  Stories  Revived  (1885). 

A  Most  Extraordinary  Case.  Atlantic  Monthly, 
April.  Reprinted  in  Stories  Revived  (1885). 

A  Problem.  The  Galaxy,  June.  Illustrated  by  W. 
J.  Hennessy. 

DeGray:   a  Romance.     Atlantic  Monthly,  July. 

Osborne's  Revenge.     The  Galaxy,  July. 

The  Spanish  Gypsy.  By  George  Eliot.  North 
American  Review,  October. 

1869 

Pyramus  and  Thisbe.  The  Galaxy,  April.  Comedi 
etta. 


191 


A  Light  Man.  The  Galaxy,  July.  Reprinted  in 
Stories  Revived  (1885),  also  Stories  by  American 
Authors  (1894). 

Gabrielle  de  Bergerac.  Atlantic  Monthly,  July- 
September. 

1870 

Travelling  Companions.  Atlantic  Monthly^  Novem 
ber-December. 

1871 

A  Passionate  Pilgrim.  Atlantic  Monthly,  March- 
April.  Reprinted  in  A  Passionate  Pilgrim 
(1875),  also  Stories  Revived  (1885). 

Still  Waters.  Balloon  Post  (published  at  the 
French  Fair,  Boston,  in  aid  of  the  destitute 
people  of  France),  No.  2,  April  12,  1871. 

At  Isella.     The  Galaxy,  August. 

Master  Eustace.  The  Galaxy,  November.  Reprinted 
in  Stories  Revived  (1885). 

Watch  and  Ward.  Atlantic  Monthly,  August- 
December.  Published  in  book  form  in  1878. 

1872 

A  Change  of  Heart.     Atlantic  Monthly,   January. 

Comedietta  in  15  scenes. 

Taine's  English  Literature.    Atlantic  Monthly,  April. 
Guest's  Confession.        Atlantic  Monthly,   October- 

November. 


The  Bethnel  Green  Museum.        Atlantic  Monthly, 
January.     Criticism  of  pictures. 


192  Ibenrs  James 


The  Madonna  of  the  Future.  Atlantic  Monthly, 
March.  Reprinted  in  A  Passionate  Pilgrim 
(1875). 

Theatre  de  Theophile  Gautier:  Mysteres,  Comedies 
et  Ballets.  North  American  Review,  April.  Re 
printed  in  French  Poets  and  Novelists  (1878). 

The  Sweetheart  of  M.  Briseux.     The  Galaxy,  June. 

A  Roman  Holiday.  Atlantic  Monthly,  July.  Re 
printed  in  Transatlantic  Sketches  (1875). 

Roman  Rides.  Atlantic  Monthly,  August.  Re 
printed  in  Transatlantic  Sketches  (1875). 

Roman  Note  Book.  The  Galaxy,  November.  Re 
printed  in  Transatlantic  Sketches  (1875). 

Roman  Neighbourhoods.  Atlantic  Monthly,  Decem 
ber.  Reprinted  in  Transatlantic  Sketches  (1875). 

1874 

The  Last  of  the  Valerii.  Atlantic  Monthly,  January. 
Reprinted  in  A  Passionate  Pilgrim  (1875),  also 
Stories  Revived  (1885). 

A  Chain  of  Italian  Cities.  Atlantic  Monthly,  Febru 
ary.  Reprinted  in  Transatlantic  Sketches  (1875). 

Madame  de  Mauves.  The  Galaxy,  February- 
March.  Reprinted  in  A  Passionate  Pilgrim 
(1875). 

An  Autumn  Journey.     The  Galaxy,  April. 

Fruhlingsfluthen.  Ein  Konig  Lear  des  Dorfes. 
Swei  Novellen  von  Iwan  Turgeniew.  North 
American  Review,  April. 

Siena.  Atlantic  Monthly,  June.  Reprinted  in 
Transatlantic  Sketches  (1875). 

Adina.     Scribner's  Monthly,  June-July. 

Professor  Fargo.     The  Galaxy,  August. 


193 


The"ophile  Gautier,  Souvenirs  Intimes.  Par  Ernest 
Feydeau.  Histoire  du  Romantisme,  Suivie  de 
Notices  Romantiques,  etc.  Par  Theophile 
Gautier.  North  American  Review,  October. 

Eugene  Pickering.  Atlantic  Monthly,  October- 
November.  Reprinted  in  A  Passionate  Pil 
grim  (1875). 

Duke  of  Montpensier's  Pictures  at  the  Athenaeum. 
(Boston).  Atlantic  Monthly,  November. 


Roderick   Hudson.        Atlantic  Monthly,   January- 

December.     Published  in  book  form  in  1876; 

again  in  revised  form  in  1879. 
Pictures   Lately   Exhibited.         The   Galaxy,   July. 

Comments  on  contemporary  American  artists. 
Benvolio.     The  Galaxy,  August. 
Tennyson's  Drama  (Queen  Mary).        The  Galaxy, 

September. 
Letters  of  Madame  de  Sabran.    The  Galaxy,  October. 

Reprinted  in  French  Poets  and  Novelists  (1878). 
Le    Dernier    des    Valerius.     La    Revue    des    deux 

Mondes,  November  15. 
The  Two  Amperes.     The  Galaxy,  November.     Re 

printed  in  French  Poets  and  Novelists  (1878). 
Honore  de  Balzac.     The  Galaxy,  December.     Re- 
*      printed  in  French  Poets  and  Novelists  (1878). 
A    Passionate   Pilgrim   and   Other   Tales.     Boston: 

James  R.   Osgood  &  Co.,    (present   publisher: 

Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.). 

Contains  also:  The  Last  of  the  Valerii  (1874)  ; 

Eugene  Pickering  (1874);  The  Madonna  of  the 

Future  (1873);  The  Romance   of  Certain  Old 

Clothes  (1868);   Madame  de  Mauves  (1874). 


194  Ibenrg  -James 


Transatlantic  Sketches.  Boston:  James  R.  Osgood 
&  Co.,  1875  (present  publisher:  Houghton,  Mif- 
flin  &  Co.). 

Contains:  Chester  (1872);  Litchfield  and 
Warwick  (1872);  North  Devon  (1872);  Wells 
and  Salisbury  (1872);  Swiss  Notes  (1872);  From 
Chambery  to  Milan  (1872);  From  Venice  to 
Strasburg  (1873) ;  The  Parisian  Stage  (1872);  A 
Roman  Holiday  (1873);  Roman  Rides  (1873); 
Roman  Neighbourhoods  (1873);  The  After  Sea 
son  in  Rome  (1873);  From  a  Roman  Note  Book 
(1872);  A  Chain  of  Cities;  The  St.  Gothard 
(1873);  Siena  (1873);  The  Autumn  in  Flor 
ence  (1873);  Florentine  Notes  (1874);  Tuscan 
Cities  (1873);  Ravenna  (1874);  The  Spliigen ; 
Hamburg  Reformed  (1873);  Darmstadt  (1873); 
In  Holland  (1874);  In  Belgium  (1874). 

Dates  after  the  titles  give  the  years  in  which 
the  papers  were  contributed  to  The  Nation  and 
the  Atlantic  Monthly. 

Roderick  Hudson.  Boston:  James  R.  Osgood  & 
Co.,  1875  (present  publisher:  Houghton,  Mif- 
flin  &  Co.). 

1876 

Le  premier  amour  d' Eugene  Pickering.     La  Revue 

des  deux  Mondes,  January  i. 
Minor   French   Novelists.     The  Galaxy,   February 

Treating  Charles  de  Bernard;    Flaubert;   MM. 

de  Goncourt.     Reprinted    in   part    in    French 

Poets  and  Novelists  (1878). 
La  Madone  de  1'avenir.     La  Revue  des  deux  Mondes, 

April  i. 


195 


King  of  Poland  and  Mme.  Geoffrin.     The  Galaxy, 

April.     Criticism  of  their  correspondence. 
The  American.     Atlantic  Monthly,  June-December; 

1877,  January-June. 
Crawford's     Consistency.  Scribner's    Monthly, 

August. 

The  Ghostly'  Rental.    Scribner's  Monthly,  September. 
Cousin   et   Cousine.     La  Revue  des  deux  Mondest 

October  i. 
Daniel  Deronda  :  a  Conversation.     Atlantic  Monthly, 

December. 

1877 

Normandy  and  Pyrenees.     The  Galaxy,  January. 
Letters  of   Balzac.     The   Galaxy,    February.      Re 

printed  in  French  Poets  and  Novelists  (1878). 
The  Theatre   Fran9ais.     The   Galaxy,    April.     Re 

printed  in  French  Poets  and  Novelists  (1878). 
Theatres  of  London.     The  Galaxy,  May. 
Alfred  de  Musset.     The  Galaxy,  June.     Reprinted 

in  French  Poets  and  Novelists  (1878). 
George    Sand.     The    Galaxy,    July.     Reprinted    in 

French  Poets  and  Novelists  (1878). 
The  Picture  Season  in  London.     The  Galaxy,  Au 

gust. 
Three  Excursions.     The  Galaxy,   September.      Ep 

som;  Hatfield  House;   Oxford  at  Commemora 

tion.     Reprinted  in  Portraits  of  Places  (1883). 
Four  Meetings.        Scribner's   Monthly,    November. 

Reprinted  in  The  Author  of  Beltraffo  (1884). 
In  Warwickshire.        The  Galaxy,  November.     Re 

printed  in  Portraits  of  Places  (1883),  also  Eng 

lish  Hours  (1905). 
The  Suburbs  of  London.     The  Galaxy,  December. 


196  Ifoenrs  James 


The  American.  Boston:  James  R.  Osgood  &  Co., 
1877  (present  publish  ?r:  Houghton,  Mifflin  & 
Co.). 

1878 

A  Little  Tour  in  France.  Atlantic  Monthly,  Janu 
ary.  Journey  into  sections  east  of  Paris. 

Italy  Revisited.     Atlantic  Monthly,  April. 

Recent  Florence.     Atlantic  Monthly,  May. 

Daisy  Miller:  A  Study.  Cornhill  Magazine,  June- 
July. 

An  International  Episode.  Cornhill  Magazine. 
December-January,  1879. 

The  Europeans.     Atlantic  Monthly,  July— October. 

Langstaff's  Marriage.      Scribner's  Monthly,  August. 

Quatre  rencontres.  La  Revue  des  deux  Mondes, 
December  15. 

The  Europeans:  A  Sketch.  Boston:  Houghton, 
Osgood  &  Co.,  1878  (present  publisher:  Hough- 
ton,  Mifflin  &  Co.);  London:  Macmillan  &  Co. 

Watch  and  Ward.  Boston:  Houghton,  Osgood  & 
Co.,  1878  (present  publisher:  Houghton,  Mif 
flin  &  Co.). 

French  Poets  and  Novelists.  London  and  New  York : 
Macmillan  &  Co.,  1878. 

Contains:  Alfred  de  Musset  (1877);  Theo- 
phile  Gautier  (1873);  Charles  Baudelaire;  Hon- 
ore  de  Balzac  (1875);  Balzac's  Letters  (1877): 
George  Sand  (1877);  Charles  de  Bernard  and 
Gustave  Flaubert  (1876);  Ivan  Turgenieff 
(1874);  The  Two  Amperes  (1875);  Madame  de 
Sabran  (1875);  Merimee's  Letters;  The  Theatre 
Franfais  (December,  1876). 

2d  edition,  1884;  reprinted  (Globe  8vo.), 
1893,  1904. 


197 


Daisy  Miller:  a  Study.  New  York:  Harper  &  Bros. 
(No.  82  of  Harper's  Half-Hour  Series.)  Re 
printed  in  1892  with  illustrations  by  Harry 
McVickar. 

An  International  Episode.  New  York:  Harper  & 
Bros.  (No.  91  of  Harper's  Half -Hour  Series.) 
Reprinted  in  1892  with  illustrations  by  Harry 
McVickar. 

1879 

The  Pension  Beaurepas.  Atlantic  Monthly,  April. 
Reprinted  in  The  Siege  of  London  (1883). 

A  Friend  of  Lord  Byron.  North  American  Review, 
April.  Review  of  Memoir  of  the  Rev.  Francis 
Hodgson,  B.D. 

Diary  of  a  Man  of  Fifty.  Harper's  Magazine,  July ; 
also  Macmillan' s  Magazine,  July.  Reprinted 
in  The  Madonna  of  the  Future  (1879). 

The  Madonna  of  the  Future.  London  and  New 
York:  Macmillan  &  Co.,  1879. 

Contains  also:  A  Bundle  of  Letters;  The 
Diary  of  a  Man  of  Fifty  (1879);  Eugene  Pick 
ering  (1874). 

Hawthorne.  New  York:  Harper  &  Bros.,  1879; 
London:  Macmillan  &  Co.  (Morley's  English 
Men  of  Letters.) 

Roderick  Hudson.  Boston:  Houghton,  Osgood  & 
Co.,  1879  (present  publisher:  Houghton,  Mif- 
flin  &  Co.). 

Reverse  of  title-page  contains  following  note : 
Roderick  Hudson  was  originally  published  in 
Boston  in  1875.  It  has  now  been  minutely 
revised  and  has  received  a  large  number  of 
verbal  alterations.  Several  passages  have  been 
rewritten. 


198  Dents  James 


The  Diary  of  a  Man  of  Fifty  and  A  Bundle  of  Let 
ters.  New  York:  Harper  &  Bros.  (No.  135 
of  Harper's  Half -Hour  Series.) 

1880 

Sainte-Beuve.  North  American  Review,  January. 
Review  of  Correspondanee  de  C.  A.  Sainte- 
Beuve. 

Washington  Square.  Harper's  Magazine,  July- 
December.  Published  in  book  form  in  1881. 

Confidence.  Scribner's  Monthly,  August— December, 
1880;  January  1881. 

The  Portrait  of  a  Lady.  Atlantic  Monthly,  Novem 
ber,  i88o-December,  1881. 

Confidence.  Boston:  Houghton,  Osgood  &  Co., 
1880  (present  publisher:  Houghton,  Mifflin  & 
Co.). 

1881 

The  Portrait  of  a  Lady.  Boston:  Houghton,  Mifflin 
&  Co.,  1881;  London:  Macmillan  &  Co.,  3  vols. 

Washington  Square.  Illustrated  by  George  du 
Marnier.  New  York:  Harper  &  Bros.,  1881. 

1882 

Alphonse  Daudet.     Atlantic  Monthly,  June. 
Venice.     Century  Magazine,  November. 
The  Point  of  View.     Century  Magazine,  December. 
Reprinted  in  The  Siege  of  London  (1882). 

1883 

Tomasso  Salvini.     Atlantic  Monthly,  March. 
Daisy  Miller:   a  Comedy.     Atlantic  Monthly,  April- 
June.     Published  in  book  form  in  1883. 


199 


Du  Maurier  and  London  Society.  Century  Maga 
zine,  May.  Reprinted  in  Partial  Portraits 
(1888). 

The  Correspondence  of  Carlyle  and  Emerson.  Cen 
tury  Magazine,  June. 

Anthony  Trollope.  Century  Magazine,  July.  Re 
printed  in  Partial  Portraits  (1888). 

En  Provence.  Atlantic  Monthly,  July-November, 
1883;  February,  April,  May,  1884.  Reprinted 
as  A  Little  Tour  in  France  (1884). 

Alphonse  Daudet.  Century  Magazine,  August. 
Reprinted  in  Partial  Portraits  (1888). 

The  Impressions  of  a  Cousin.  Century  Magazine, 
November-December.  Reprinted  in  Tales  of 
Three  Cities  (1883). 

Daisy  Miller:  a  Comedy.  In  three  acts.  Boston: 
James  R.  Osgood  &  Co.  (present  publisher: 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.).  1883. 

The  Siege  of  London.  Boston :  Houghton,  Mifflin  & 
Co.;  London:  Macmillan  &  Co.,  1883.  James 
R.  Osgood  &  Co.  (present  publisher:  Hough- 
ton,  Mifflin  &  Co.). 

Contains  also:  The  Pension  Beaurepas 
(1879);  The  Point  of  View  (1882). 

Portraits  of  Places.  Boston:  James  R.  Osgood  & 
Co.,  1883  (present  publisher:  Houghton,  Mifflin 
&  Co.);  London:  Macmillan  &  Co.,  1883. 

Contains:  Venice  (1882);  Italy  Revisited 
(1877);  Occasional  Paris  (1877);  Reims  and 
Laon;  A  Little  Tour  (1876);  Chartres  (1876); 
Rouen  (1876);  Etretat  (1876);  From  Nor 
mandy  to  the  Pyrenees  (1876);  An  English 
Easter  (1877);  London  at  Midsummer  (1877); 


200  f>enr£  James 


Two  Excursions:  Epsom  and  Oxford  at  Com 
memoration  (1877);  In  Warwickshire  (1877); 
Abbeys  and  Castles  (1877);  English  Vignettes 
(1879);  An  English  New  Year  (1879);  An  Eng 
lish  Watering- Place  (1879);  Saratoga  (1870); 
Newport  (1870);  Quebec  (1871);  Niagara 

(1871). 

The  foregoing  dates  mark  the  year  in  which 
articles  were  contributed  either  to  The  Nation, 
The  Atlantic  Monthly,  or  The  Galaxy. 
Daisy  Miller,  Four  Meetings,  Langstaff's  Marriage. 
London:  Macmillan  &  Co.,  1883. 

1884 

Ivan  Turgenieff.  Atlantic  Monthly,  January.  Re 
printed  in  Partial  Portraits  (1888). 

Lady  Barbarina.     Century  Magazine,  May-July. 

A  New  England  Winter.  Century  Magazine,  Au 
gust-September.  Reprinted  in  Tales  of  Three 
Cities  (1884). 

The  Art  of  Fiction.  Longmans1  Magazine,  Septem 
ber.  Reply  to  W.  Besant's  lecture  on  The  Art 
of  Fiction  delivered  at  the  Royal  Institution, 
April  25,  1884.  Reprinted  in  Partial  Por 
traits  (1888);  also  combined  with  Besant's  Art 
of  Fiction  (Cupples  &  Ford,  Boston,  1884); 
again  in  The  Writer,  September,  1899. 

A  Little  Tour  in  France.  Boston :  James  R.  Osgood 
&  Co.  (present  publisher:  Houghton,  Mifflin  & 
Co.),  1884. 

Through  Touraine,  Gascony,  Provence,  etc. 
New  edition,   with  illustrations  by  Joseph 
Pennell,  in  1900. 


201 


Tales  of  Three  Cities.  Boston  :  James  R.  Osgood  & 
Co.,  1884  (present  publisher:  Houghton,  Mifflin 
&  Co.). 

Contains:  The  Impressions  of  a  Cousin  (1883) 

—  a  tale  of  New  York;  Lady  Barbarina  (1884) 

—  a  tale  of  London  and  New  York;    A  New 
England  Winter  (1884)  —  a  tale  of  Boston. 

1885 

George  Eliot's  Life.     Atlantic  Monthly,  May. 

The   Bostonians.         Century  Magazine,   February, 

i88s-February,  1886. 
The  Princess  Casamassima.     Atlantic  Monthly,  Sep 

tember,    1885  -October,    1886.     Published   in 

book  form  in  1886. 
The  Author  of  Beltraffio.     Boston  :  James  R.  Osgood 

&  Co.,  1885  (present  publisher:  Houghton,  Mif 

flin  &  Co.). 

Contains  also  :  Pandora;  Georgina's  Reasons; 

The  Path  of  Duty;    Four  Meetings  (1877). 
Stories  Revived.     First  and  Second  Series.     2  vols.; 

also  3  vols.     London:   Macmillan  &  Co.,  1885. 
Contents:  Vol.  I.  —  The  Author  of  Beltraffio; 

Pandora;   The  Path  of  Duty;  A  Day  of  Days 

(1866).     Vol.      II.—  A     Light      Man      (1869); 

Georgina's     Reason;      A     Passionate     Pilgrim 

(1871);    Rose-Agathe  (1878).     Vol.  III.—  Poor 

Richard  (1867)  ;  The  Last  of  the  Valerii  (1874); 

Master  Eustace  (1871);    The  Romance  of  Cer 

tain  Old  Clothes  (1868);  A  Most  Extraordinary 

Case  (1868). 

Not  issued  in  America. 


202  Ibenrp  3ames 


1886 

William  Dean  Howells.     Harper's  Weekly,  June  19. 
Edwin  A.  Abbey.     Harper's  Weekly,  December  4. 

Reprinted  in  Picture  and  Text  (1893). 
The  Bostonians.     New  York:    Macmillan  &  Co.,  i 

vol.;    London:    Macmillan  &  Co.,  3  vols.,  1886. 
The  Princess  Casamassima.     New  York :  Macmillan 

&  Co.,   i  vol.;    London:    Macmillan  &  Co.,  3 

vols.,  1886. 

1887 

Coquelin.     Century  Magazine,  January. 
Constance  Fenimore  Woolson.        Harper's  Weekly, 

February    12.     Reprinted   in  Partial  Portraits 

(1888). 
John  S.  Sargent.       Harper's  Magazine,  October. 

Reprinted  in  Picture  and  Text  (1893). 
Cousin  Maria.     Harper's  Weekly,  August  6,  13,  20. 

Illustrated  by  C.  S.  Reinhart. 
Emerson.      Macmillan' s  Magazine,  December. 

1888 

Louisa  Pallant.  Harper's  Magazine,  February. 
Illustrated  by  C.  S.  Reinhart.  Reprinted  in 
The  Aspern  Papers  (1888). 

Guy  de  Maupassant.  Fortnightly  Review,  March. 
Reprinted  in  Partial  Portraits  (1888). 

The  Aspern  Papers.  Atlantic  Monthly,  March- 
May.  Published  in  book  form  in  1888. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  Century  Magazine,  April. 
Reprinted  in  Partial  Portraits  (1888). 

The  Liar.  Century  Magazine,  May.  Reprinted  in 
A  London  Life  (1889). 


203 


Two  Countries.  Harper's  Magazine,  June.  Re 
printed  as  The  Modern  Warning  in  The  Aspern 
Papers  (1888). 

A  London  Life.  Scribner's  Magazine,  June-Sep 
tember.  Published  in  book  form  in  1889. 

London.  Century  Magazine,  December.  Illustra 
tions  by  Joseph  Pennell.  Reprinted  in  Essays 
in  London  and  Elsewhere  (1893). 

The  Aspern  Papers,  Louisa  Pallant,  The  Modern 
Warning.  London  and  New  York:  Macmillan 
&  Co.,  1888.  2  vols.,  also  i  vol. 

Partial  Portraits.  London:  Macmillan  &  Co.,  1888. 
Reprinted  1894,  1899. 

Contains;  Emerson  (1887);  The  Life  of 
George  Eliot  (1885);  Daniel  Deronda:  a  Con 
versation  (1876);  Anthony  Trollope  (1883); 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  (1887);  Miss  Woolson 
(1887);  Alphonse  Daudet  (1883);  Guy  de  Mau 
passant  (1888) ;  Ivan  Turgenieff  (1884) ;  George 
du  Maurier  (1883);  The  Art  of  Fiction  (1884). 

The  Reverberator.  London  and  New  York:  Mac 
millan  &  Co.,  1888. 

1889 
The  Tragic  Muse.   Atlantic  Monthly,  January,  1889- 

May,  1890.  Published  in  book  form  in  1890. 
After  the  Play.     New  Review,  June.      Reprinted  in 

Picture  and  Text  (1893). 
An  Animated  Conversation.      Scribner's  Magazine, 

March.     Reprinted  in  Essays  in  London  and 

Elsewhere  (1893). 
Our  Artists  in  Europe.     Harper's  Magazine,  June. 

Reprinted   under  other  titles  in   Picture   and 

Text  (1893). 


204  Ibenrs  James 


Guy  de  Maupassant.     Harper's  Weekly,  October  19. 
The  Solution.     New  Review,  December,  iSSp-Feb- 

ruary,   1890.     Reprinted  in  The  Lesson  of  the 

Master  (1892). 
A   London   Life,    The   Patagonia,   The   Liar,   Mrs. 

Temperly.     London  and  New  York  :  Macmillan 

&  Co.,  1889. 
The  Odd  Number.       Thirteen  Tales.     By  Guy  de 

Maupassant.     The    Translation    by    Jonathan 

Sturges.     An  Introduction  by  Henry  James. 

New  York:  Harper  &  Bros.,  1889. 

1890 

Daumier,  Caricaturist.    Century  Magazine  January. 

With  illustrations.     Reprinted  in  Picture  and 

Text  (1893). 
Charles   S.   Reinhart.     Harper's  Weekly,  June   14. 

Reprinted  in  Picture  and  Text  (1893). 
Port  Tarascon:    the  Last  Adventures  of  the  Illus 

trious  Tartarin.     Translated  by  Henry  James. 

With  preface  by  the  translator.     New  York: 

Harper  &  Bros.,  1890. 
The  Tragic  Muse.     Boston:    Houghton,  Mifflin  & 

Co.,  2  vols.,  1890;   London:   Macmillan  &  Co., 

3  vols.,  1890. 

1891 

The  Science  of  Criticism.     New  Review,  May. 
Brooksmith.     Harper's  Weekly,  May  2.     Reprinted 

in  The  Lesson  of  the  Master  (1891). 
On  the  Occasion  of  Hedda  Gabler.      New  Review, 

June.     Reprinted   in   Essays  in  London  and 

Elsewhere  (1893). 


205 


The  Marriages.  Atlantic  Monthly,  August.  Re 
printed  in  The  Lesson  of  the  Master  (1891). 

The  Chaperon.  Atlantic  Monthly,  November—  De 
cember.  Reprinted  in  The  Real  Thing  (1893). 
1892 

James  Russell  Lowell.  Atlantic  Monthly,  January. 
Reprinted  in  Essays  in  London  and  Elsewhere 


Mrs.  Humphry   Ward.     English  Illustrated  Maga 

zine,  February.     Reprinted  in  Essays  in  London 

and  Elsewhere  (1893). 
Nona  Vincent.     English  Illustrated  Magazine,  Feb 

ruary-March.     Illustrations    by    W.    J.    Hen- 

nessy.     Reprinted  in  The  Real  Thing  (1893). 
The  Private  Life.     Atlantic  Monthly,  April.     Pub 

lished  in  book  form  in  1893. 
Lord    Beauprey.     Macmillan's    Magazine,    April- 

June.  Reprinted  in  The  Private  Life  (1893). 
Wolcott  Balestier.  Cosmopolitan  Magazine,  May. 
Jersey  Villas.  Cosmopolitan  Magazine,  July-Au 

gust.     Illustrated   by    Irving    R.    Wiles.     Re 

printed  as  Sir  Dominick  Farrand  in  The  Real 

Thing^  (1893). 
Collaboration.     English  Illustrated  Magazine,  Sep 

tember.     Reprinted    in    The    Wheel    of    Time 

(1893)- 
The  Grand  Canal.     Scribner's  Magazine,  November. 

Illustrations  by  Alexander  Zezzos.     Reprinted 

in  The  Great  Streets  of  the  World.     New  York: 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  1892. 
The  Wheel  of  Time.      Cosmopolitan  Magazine,  De 

cember,     1892—  January,     1893.     Published    in 

book  form  in  1893. 


206  Denrs  Sames 


Daisy  Miller  and  An  International  Episode.  Illus 
trated  from  drawings  by  Harry  W.  McVickar. 
New  York:  Harper  &  Bros.,  1892. 

The  Average  Woman.  By  Wolcott  Balestier.  Pre 
face  by  Henry  James.  American  Publishing 
Corporation,  1892;  United  States  Book  Co. 

The  Lesson  of  the  Master.  London  and  New  York  : 
Macmillan  &  Co.,  1892. 

Contains  also:    The  Marriages  (1891);    The 
Pupil;  Brooksmith  (1891);   Sir  Edmund  Orme. 

1893 

Gustave  Flaubert.  Macmillah's  Magazine,  March. 
Reprinted  in  Essays  in  London  and  Elsewhere 

(1893)- 

Frances  Anne  Kemble.  Temple  Bar,  April.  Re 
printed  in  Essays  in  London  and  Elsewhere 


The    Middle    Years.     Scribner's    Magazine,     May. 

Reprinted  in  Terminations  (1895). 

\         Essays  in  London  and  Elsewhere.     New  York  :   Har 
per  &  Bros.,  1893;   London:  James  R.  Osgood; 
•  Mcllvaine  &  C^.,    1893. 

Contains:  .London  (1888);  James  Russell 
Lowell  (1891);  Frances  Anne  Kemble  (1893); 
Gustave  Flaubert  (1893);  Pierre  Loti  (1888); 
Journal  of  the  Brothers  de  Goncourt  (1888); 
Browning  in  t\^estminster  Abbey  (1890);  Hen- 
rik  Ibsen;  On  the  Occasion  of  Hedda  Gabler; 
On  the  Occasion  of  The  Master  Builder  (1891- 
1893);  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  (1891);  Criti 
cism  (1891);  An  Animated  Conversation 
(1889). 


207 


'  Picture   and   Text.     New   York:     Harper   &   Bros. 
Contains:    Black  and  White  (1889);    Edwin 
A.  Abbey;    Charles  S.  Reinhart;    Alfred  Par 
sons;    John  S.  Sargent  (1887);    Honore  Dau- 
mier  (1890);   After  the  Play  (1889). 
The   Private   Life.      London:     James    R.    Osgood; 
Mcllvaine  &  Co.,  1893. 

Contains  also:    The  Wheel  of  Time  (1892); 
Lord  Beaupr6  (1892);    The  Visits;    Collabora 
tion  (1892);   Owen  Wingrave. 
The  Private  Life,  The  Visits,  Lord  Beaupre.     New 

York:  Harper  &  Bros.,  1893. 
The  Wheel  of  Time,  Collaboration,  Owen  Wingrave. 

New  York:    Harper  &  Bros.,  1893. 
The  Real  Thing  and  Other  Tales..     New  York  and 
London:    Macmillan  &  Co.,  1893. 

Contains  also:  Sir  Dominick  Farrand  (1892); 
Nona  Vincent  (1892);  The  Chaperon  (1891); 
Greville  Fane. 

1894 

George  du  Maurier.     Harper's  Weekly,  April  14. 

The  Death  of  the  Lion.  The  Yellow  Book,  London, 
April.  Reprinted  in  Terminations  (1895). 

The  Coxon  Fund.  The  Yellow  Book,  London,  July. 
Reprinted  in  Terminations  (1895). 

This  volume  of  The  Yellow  Book  also  con 
tains  a  portrait  sketch  of  the  author  by  Sargent. 

Theatricals.  Two  Comedies:  Tenants,  Disengaged. 
London:  James  R.  Osgood;  Mcllvaine  &  Co., 
1894;  New  York:  Harper  &  Bros.,  1894. 

Theatricals.  Second  Series:  The  Album,  The  Re 
probate.  London:  James  R.  Osgood;  Mcll 
vaine  &  Co. ;  New  York:  Harper  &  Bros.,  1894. 


208  E>enrs  3ames 


1895 

The  Next  Time.      The  Yellow  Book,  London,  July. 

Reprinted  in  Embarrassments  (1896). 
Guy  Domville.     Mr.  Henry  James'  Guy  Domville: 

An  Appreciation,  by  A.  B.  Walkley.     Harper's 

Weekly,  March  2. 

This  drama  was  produced  in  London  at  the 

St.  James  Theatre,  January  5,  but  has  never 

been  printed.     The  foregoing  article  contains 

an  analysis  of  the  play  and  a  few  citations. 
Terminations'.    The  Death  of  the  Lion,  The  Coxon 

Fund,  The  Middle  Years,  The  Altar  of  the  Dead. 

New  York:   Harper  &  Bros.,  1895. 

1896 
The  Figure  in  the  Carpet.     Cosmopolis,  January. 

Simultaneously  in   The  Chap   Book,   Chicago. 

Reprinted  in  Embarrassments  (1896). 
Glasses.      Atlantic  Monthly,  February.     Reprinted 

in  Embarrassments  (1896). 
On  the  Death  of  Alexander  Dumas  the  Younger 

(November  27,  1895).     New  Review,  March. 
The  Old  Things.     Atlantic  Monthly,  April-October. 

Published  in  book  form  as  The  Spoils  of  Poyn- 

ton  (1897). 
The  Way  It  Came.     The  Chap  Book,  May  i.     Re 

printed  in  Embarrassments  (1896). 
Mr.  Henry  living's  Production  of  Cymbeline.    Har 

per's  Weekly,  November  21. 
Embarrassments.     London   and   New  York:    Mac- 

millan  &  Co.,  1896. 

Contains:    The  Figure  in  the  Carpet  (1896); 

Glasses  (1896);    The  Next  Time  (1895);    The 

Way  It  Came  (1896). 


209 


The  Other  House.  New  York:  The  Macmillan  Co.  ; 
London:  Macmillan  &  Co.,  Ltd.,  1896.  Issued 
October,  1896;  reprinted,  November,  1896. 

1897 

He  and  She:  Recent  Documents.  The  Yellow 
Book,  London,  January. 

On  the  intimacy  of  George  Sand  and  Alfred 
de  Musset. 

What  Maisie  Knew.     New  Review,  February-July. 

Simultaneously  in   The  Chap   Book,    Chicago, 

January    15—  August     i.     Published    in    book 

form  in  1897. 

George  du  Maurier.     Harper's  Magazine,  Septem 

ber. 
What  Maisie  Knew.     London:    Heinemann  &  Co.; 

Chicago:   Herbert  S.  Stone  &  Co.,  1897. 
London  Letters  in  Harper's  Weekly. 

Dated  January  i.  Irving's  Richard  III.; 
Jane  Robins  in  Ibsen;  Watts'  s  pictures.  Pub 
lished  January  23. 

January  15.  Ibsen's  John  Gabriel  Borkman. 
Published  February  6. 

February  i.  Marks'  s  Life  and  Letters  of 
Frederick  Walker;  Pictures  at  Burlington 
House  and  Grafton  Gallery.  Published  Feb 
ruary  20. 

March  3.  Forty-one  Years  in  India  (Lord 
Roberts);  Hunter's  The  Thackerays  in  India; 
Steel,  On  the  Face  of  the  Waters.  Published 
March  27. 

April  3.  Mr.  Archer  on  the  Drama;  Forbes- 
Robertson;  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell;  Beerbohm 


210  Tbenrs  James 


Tree;  Charles  Wyndham.     Published  April  24, 
May    5.     The    Spring    Exhibitions — Abbey. 
Sargent.     Published  June  5. 

June  i.  Queen's  Jubilee.     Published  June  26. 
July  i.     George  Gissing.     Published  July  3 1 . 
July  31.     Paul  Bouget  at  Oxford;    Mrs.  Oli- 
phant.     Published  August  21. 

August    31.     Old    Suffolk.     Published    Sep 
tember  25.    Reprinted  in  English  Hours  (1905). 
October     16.     English    Politics.     Published 
November  6. 

The  Spoils  of  Poynton.  Boston  and  New  York: 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  1897;  London,  Heine- 
mann  &  Co.,  1897. 

Last  Studies  of  Hubert  Crackenthorpe.  With  an 
Introduction  by  Henry  James.  London: 
Heinemann  &  Co.,  November,  1897. 

1898 
John     Delavoy.     Cosmopolis,     January-February. 

Reprinted  in  The  Soft  Side  (1900). 
The  Late  James  Payn.     Illustrated  London  News, 

April  9. 
The   Story-teller   at   Large:    Mr.    Henry   Harland. 

Fortnightly  Review,  April. 
Prosper  Merimee.     Literature,  July  23. 
The  Awkward  Age.     Harper's  Weekly,  October  i, 
i898-January    7,    1899.     Published    in    book 
form  in  1899. 
American  Letter.     Literature,  vol.  ii. 

March  26.     Question  of  Opportunities. 
April  9.     The  International  and  the  Local; 
Henry  Harland;   American  Wives  and  English 
Husbands  (Mrs.  Atherton). 


211 


April  1 6.  General  Grant's  Letters;  Walt 
Whitman;  Richard  Harding  Davis. 

April  23.  American  Ideals  (Roosevelt); 
Essays  on  the  Civil  War  and  Reconstruction 
(Dunning);  The  Workers  (Wyckoff). 

April  30.  The  Celebrity  (Churchill) ;  Soldier 
of  Manhattan  (Altsheler);  The  General's 
Double  (Captain  King). 

June  ii.  American  Magazines;  Across  the 
Everglades  (Willoughby) ;  Cheerful  Yester 
days  (Higginson);  Emerson  and  Other  Essays 
(Chapman). 

June  25.  Unforeseen  Tendencies  in  Democ 
racy  (Godkin);  Meaning  of  Education  (Butler). 
July  9.  The  Novel  of  Dialect;  The  Durket 
Sperret  (Barn well- Elliott);  The  Juggler  (Crad- 
dock);  The  Preference  for  the  Study  of  the 
Primitive;  The  Story  of  a  Play  (Howells); 
Silence  (Wilkins). 

Alphonse  Daudet.     Literature,  December  25. 

In  the  Cage.  Chicago  and  New  York:  Herbert  S. 
Stone  &  Co.,  1898;  London:  Duckworth,  Au 
gust,  1898. 

The  Two  Magics:  The  Turn  of  the  Screw,  Covering 
End.  New  York:  The  Macmillan  Co.,  1898; 
London:  Duckworth,  August,  1898.  American 
edition  set  up  and  electrotyped,  September  18, 
1898.  Reprinted  October,  1898;  January, 
April,  May,  1899;  March,  1905. 

Pierre  Loti's  Impressions.  Introduction  by  Henry 
James.  London:  Constable,  November,  1898. 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne.  Warner  Library  of  the 
World's  Best  Literature. 


212  1benr£  3ames 

James  Russell  Lowell.  Warner  Library  of  the 
World's  Best  Literature. 

Ivan  Turgenieff.  Warner  Library  of  the  World's 
Best  Literature. 

1899 

Europe.  Scribner's  Magazine,  June.  Reprinted  in 
The  Soft  Side  (1900). 

Present  Literary  Situation  in  France.  North  Ameri 
can  Review,  October. 

The  Awkward  Age.  New  York:  Harper  &  Bros., 
1899;  London:  Heinemann  &  Co.,  April,  1899. 

1900 

Letters  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  North  Ameri 
can  Review,  January. 

The  Great  Good  Place.  Scribner's  Magazine,  Janu 
ary.  Reprinted  in  The  Soft  Side  (1900), 

Maud-Evelyn.  Atlantic  Monthly,  April.  Re 
printed  in  The  Soft  Side  (1900). 

Miss  Gunton  of  Poughkeepsie.  Cornhill  Magazine, 
May.  Reprinted  in  The  Soft  Side  (1900). 

The  Tone  of  Time.  Scribner's  Magazine,  November. 
Reprinted  in  The  Better  Sort  (1903). 

Broken  Wings.  Century  Magazine,  December. 
Reprinted  in  The  Better  Sort  (1903). 

The  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  A  Tale.  By  Oliver  Gold 
smith.  With  an  Introduction  by  Henry  James. 
New  York:  The  Century  Co.,  1900. 

The  Soft  Side.  New  York:  The  Macmillan  Co., 
1900;  London:  Methuen  &  Co.,  8vo.,  Sep 
tember,  1900. 

Contains:     The   Great    Good    Place    (1900); 
Europe  (1899);   Paste;  The  Real  Right  Thing; 


213 


The  Great  Condition;  The  Tree  of  Knowledge; 
The  Abasement  of  the  Northmores ;  The  Given 
Case;  John  Delavoy  (1898);  The  Third  Per 
son;  Maud-Evelyn  (1900);  Miss  Gunton  of 
Poughkeepsie  (1900). 

A  Little  Tour  in  France.  With  illustrations  by 
Joseph  Pennell.  Boston  and  New  York: 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  1900.  First  English 
edition — London:  Heinemann  &  Co.,  8vo,  pp. 
350.  Published  October,  1900.  New  preface 
signed  London,  August  6,  1899. 

1901 

Winchelsea,  Rye,  and  "  Denis  Duval."  Scribner's 
Magazine,  January.  Pictures  by  E.  Peixotto. 
Reprinted  in  English  Hours  (1905). 

Matilde  Serao.     North  American  Review,  March. 

The  Two  Faces.  Cornhill  Magazine,  June.  Re 
printed  in  The  Better  Sort  (1903). 

The  Beldonald  Holbein.  Harper's  Magazine,  Octo 
ber.  Illustrations  by  Lucius  Hitchcock.  Re 
printed  in  The  Better  Sort  (1903). 

Edmund  Rostand.  Cornhill  Magazine,  November; 
The  Critic,  November. 

Faces.     Harper's  Bazaar,  December. 

The  Sacred  Fount.  New  York:  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons,  1901 ;  London:  Methuen  &  Co.,  February, 
1901. 

1902 

The  Late  Mrs.  Arthur  Bronson.  The  Critic,  Feb 
ruary. 

George  Sand:  The  New  Life.  North  American  Re 
view,  April. 


214  Ifoenrg  James 


Flickerbridge.  Scribner's  Magazine,  February. 
Reprinted  in  The  Better  Sort  (1903). 

The  Wings  of  the  Dove.  2  vols.  New  York: 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  1902  (published  Au 
gust)  ;  London :  Constable,  cr.  8vo.  (published 
September,  1902). 

Flaubert's  Madame  Bovary.  With  critical  intro 
duction  by  Henry  James.  8vo,  pp.  486. 
Heinemann,  May,  1902. 

Balzac's  Two  Young  Brides.  With  critical  intro 
duction  by  Henry  James.  8vo,  pp.  417. 
Heinemann,  September,  1902. 

The  two  foregoing  included  in  Heinemann' s 
Century  of  French  Romance. 


1903 

The  Ambassadors.  North  American  Review,  Janu 
ary-December.  Published  in  book  form  in 
1903. 

Emile  Zola.     Atlantic  Monthly,  August. 

The  Better  Sort.  New  York:  Charles  •Scribner's 
Sons,  1903;  London:  Methuen  &  Co.,  8vo, 
February,  1903. 

Contains:  Broken  Wings  (1900);  The  Bel- 
donald  Holbein  (1901);  The  Two  Faces  (1901) ; 
The  Tone  of  Time  (1900);  The  Special  Type; 
Mrs.  Medwin;  Flickerbridge  (1902);  The 
Story  in  It;  The  Beast  in  the  Jungle;  The 
Birthplace;  The  Papers. 

The  Ambassadors.  New  York :  Harper  &  Bros,  (pub 
lished  November,  1903);  London:  Methuen  & 
Co.,  8vo  (published  September,  1903). 


215 


William  Wetmore  Story  and  His  Friends.  From 
Letters,  Diaries,  and  Recollections.  In  two 
volumes.  Boston:  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co., 
1903;  London:  William  Blackwood  &  Sons, 
2  vols.,  8vo,  October,  1903. 

1904 

Gabrielle  d'Annunzio.      Quarterly  Review,  April. 
Fordham  Castle.      Harper's  Magazine,  December. 
The  Golden  Bowl.     2  vols.     New  York:    Charles 
Scribner's  Sons,  1904  (published  November). 

1905 

New  England:  An  Autumn  Impression.  North 
American  Review,  April-June. 

The  Lesson  of  Balzac.     Atlantic  Monthly,  August. 

The  Question  of  Our  Speech.  Appleton's  Book- 
lover's  Magazine,  August. 

•  The  Question  of  Our  Speech. 

Containing  also  The  Lesson  of  Balzac.  Two 
lectures.  By  Henry  James.  Boston  and  New 
York:  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  1905.  300 
copies  of  the  first  edition  bound  uncut. 

English  Hours.  By  Henry  James.  With  illustra 
tions  by  Joseph  Pennell.  Boston  and  New 
York:  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  1905. 

Contains:  London;  Browning  in  Westmin 
ster  Abbey;  Chester;  Litchfield  and  Warwick; 
North  Devon;  Wells  and  Salisbury;  An  Eng 
lish  Easter;  London  at  Midsummer;  Two  Ex 
cursions;  In  Warwickshire;  Abbeys  and 
Castles;  English  Vignettes;  An  English  New 
Year;  An  English  Watering-place;  Winchel- 
sea,  Rye,  and  "Denis  Duval";  Old  Suffolk. 


BELLES-LETTRES 


Browning,  Poet  and  Man 

A  Survey.  By  ELISABETH  LUTHER  GARY, 
author  of  "The  Rossettis,"  "William 
Morris,"  etc. 

8°.      With.  25  illustrations  in  photogravure  and  some  text 

illustrations.     Net,  tfj-jo. 

LIBRARY   EDITION.       With  photogravure  frontis 
piece  and  16  illustrations  in  half-tone. 


"  It  is  written  with  taste  and  judgment.  .  .  .  The 
book  is  exactly  what  it  ought  to  be,  and  will  lead  many  to 
an  appreciation  of  Browning  who  have  hitherto  looked  at 
the  bulk  of  his  writings  with  disgust.  .  .  .  It  is 
beautifully  illustrated,  and  the  paper  and  typography  are 
superb.  It  is  an  edition  that  every  admirer  of  Browning 
should  possess,  being  worthy  in  every  way  of  the  poet."  — 
Chicago  Evening  Post. 

TVrmvQrm         His  Homes,  his  Friends, 
11J*     Ml  and  his  Work. 

By  ELISABETH  LUTHER  GARY,  author  of 
"  The  Rossettis,"  "  William  Morris,"  etc. 

<?°.      With  1  8  illustrations  in  photogravure  and  some  text 

illustrations.    Net,  $3.30. 

LIBRARY  EDITION.       With  photogravure  frontis.- 
piece  and  16  illustrations  in  half-tone  •,  $2.50. 

u  The  multitude  of  admirers  of  Tennyson  in  the  United 
States  will  mark  this  beautiful  volume  as  very  satisfactory. 
The  text  is  clear,  terse,  and  intelligent,  and  the  matter 
admirably  arranged,  while  the  mechanical  work  is  fault 
less,  with  art  work  especially  marked  for  excellence.'4  — 
Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 


G.    P.   PUTNAM'S  SONS 

Neiv  York  London 


BELLES-LETTRES 


William  Morris.      Poet >  Cr fsman 

7  Socialist 

By  ELISABETH  LUTHER  GARY,  author  of 
"  The  Rossettis,"  "  Robert  Browning," 
"  Tennyson,"  etc. 

8°.     Fully  illustrated,  uniform  with  "The  Rossettis" 
"Browning"  etc.     Net,  $j.jo.      By  mail,  vfc./jr. 

"  Miss  Gary  has  an  unpretentious  style,  it  is  clear,  expressive,  and 
sufficiently  flexible.  One  will  rise  from  her  book  with  a  better 
understanding  of  the  Morris  attitude  towards  the  world  in  all  his 
activities  and  that  of  the  world  towards  him.  It  is  an  interesting,  in 
forming  work.  And  it  is  printed  in  an  artistic  way  that  would  have 
pleased  Morris  himself." — Cleveland  Leader. 


The  Rossettis,       Dan« LGabriel  ^ 

Christina 
By  ELISABETH  LUTHER  GARY 

With  27  illustrations  in  photogravure  and  some  text 

illustrations.     Net,  $3.30. 

LIBRAR  Y  EDITION.      With  photogravure  frontis 
piece  and  16  illustrations  in  half-tone,  $2.50. 

"  The  story  of  this  life  has  been  told  by  Mr.  Hall  Caine,  Mr. 
William  Sharp,  Mr.  Watts-Dunton,  and  Mr.  William  Rossetti,  his 
brother,  but  never  quite  so  well  as  by  Miss  Gary,  who,  thoroughly 
conversant  with  all  the  material  which  their  writings  furnish,  has 
turned  it  to  better  advantage  than  they  were  capable  of  from  their 
personal  relation  to  its  perplexing  subject." — Mail  and  Express. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

New  York  London 


BELLE  S-LE  TTRES 


Ralph  Waldo  Emerson, 

By  ELISABETH  LUTHER  GARY,  author  of 
"  The  Rossettis,"  "  William  Morris,"  etc. 

With  20  illustrations  in  photogravure,  including  a  large 
number  of  interesting  portraits.  8° .  Uniform  with 
other  works  by  Miss  Cary.  Net,  -$3.50.  (By 
mail,  $3.73) 

"Miss  Cary  sketches  the  entire  life  and  the  intellectual  and 
spiritual  development  of  Emerson,  his  theories,  beliefs,  the  influence 
of  his  philosophy  and  poetry,  and  his  place  in  our  literature.  Miss 
Gary's  estimates  are,  on  the  whole,  just  and  her  anecdotes  illumin 
ative  of  his  personality.  The  book  is  an  addition  to  Emerson  liter 
ature  and  one  which  will  be  appreciated  by  the  admirers  of  our 
sweetest  philosopher." — Town  and  Country. 


Poems  of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti 

With  illustrations  after  his  own  designs 
Edited  by  ELISABETH  LUTHER  GARY 

With  32  illustrations  in  photogravure.  Uniform  with 
Gary's  "Rossettis"  Two  volumes.  8°.  Gilt  tops. 
Net,  $6.50.  (By  mail,  $7.00} 

"The  peculiar  value  of  this  edition  lies  of  course  in  the  pictures, 
with  their  many-colored  cross-lights  on  the  poems.  The  poems  in  turn 
often  define  or  add  a  suggestiveness  to  the  meaning  of  the  pictures. 
Miss  Gary's  notes  are  of  distinctive  value  in  their  explanation  of  the 
important  variations  in  the  text  of  the  poems  and  in  biographical  de 
tails  which  serve  to  connect  the  poems  with  the  man."—  The  Dial. 

G.   P.   PUTNAM'S    SONS 

New  York  London 


By  ELIZABETH  W.  CHAMPNEY 

Romance  of  the  French  Abbeys 

Octavo.     With  2  Coloured,  9  Photogravure,  50  other 
Illustrations,  and  Ornamental  Headpieces 

"  A  delightful  blending  of  history,  art  and  romance.  .  .  .  Many  of 
the  stories  related  are  thrilling  and  none  the  less  exciting  because  they  belong 
to  history."— Chicago  Dial. 

"  The  book  fully  carries  out  the  suggestion  of  Guizot, '  If  you  are  fond  of 
romance,  read  history.'  "—Boston  Transcript. 

Romance  of  the  Feudal  Chateaux 

Octavo.    With  40  Photogravure  and  other  Illustrations 

"The  author  has  retold  the  legends  and  traditions  which  cluster  about 
the  chateaux  and  castles,  which  have  come  down  from  the  Middle  Ages,  with 
the  skillful  touch  of  the  artist  and  the  grace  of  the  practiced  writer.  .  .  . 
The  story  of  France  takes  on  a  new  light  as  studied  in  connection  with  the 
architecture  of  these  fortified  homes."—  Christian  Intelligencer. 

Romance  of 
the  Renaissance  Chateaux 

Octavo.    With  40  Photogravure  and  other  Illustrations 

"The  romances  of  those  beautiful  chateaux  are  placed  by  the  author  on 
the  lips  of  the  people  who  lived  in  them.  She  gives  us  a  feeling  of  intimacy  with 
characters  whose  names  belong  to  history." — N.  Y.  Mail  and  Express. 

"  A  book  of  high  merit.  ...  Good  history,  good  story,  and  good 
art."— Hartford  Courant. 

Romance  of 
the  Bourbon  Chateaux 

Octavo.     With  Coloured  Frontispiece  and  47  Photo 
gravure  and  other  Illustrations 

"  Told  with  a  keen  eye  to  the  romantic  elements,  and  a  clear  understand 
ing  of  historical  significance." — Boston  Transcript. 

u  It  is  a  book  that  will  be  read  with  interest  this  year  or  ten  or  twenty 
years  hence." — Hartford  Courant. 

Four  volumes.     Illustrated.    Each,  in  a  box,  net,  $3.00 
(By  mail,  $3.25.)   The  set,  4  volumes  in  a  box,  net,  $12.00 


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